


bywyd ar Mawrth (Life on Mars)

by nqdonne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aurors, Drunkenness, Frottage, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Porn, Rimming, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 13:24:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nqdonne/pseuds/nqdonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When former Death Eater informants start turning up dead, Auror Harry Potter must take star <i>Daily Prophet</i> reporter (and owner) Draco Malfoy into protective custody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bywyd ar Mawrth (Life on Mars)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted between November 2006 & August 2007, so this is post-HbP but pre-DH canon.
> 
> I don't speak Welsh but someone told me the title was correct... any Welsh people, if I got it wrong, apologies! 
> 
> Contains veiled references to Little Britain (so, no, you're not imagining it!) and everywhere mentioned is a real place. Originally posted in five parts, but compiled here into just one long fic. The end features an awesome piece of art lizardspots drew to go with the epilogue!

There were certain things in life that were expected; the fall of the leaves in autumn, the screams of a child for its mother, the crackle of a roaring fire - and then of course, there was Harry Potter's inescapably bad luck.

There were the more obvious strokes against his luck in life, his early orphaning and the 17 year long Voldemort debacle, to name but a few. But as far as Harry was concerned, it wasn't life itself he was a loser in, no. It was more his love life in particular, or lack thereof.

His fascination with Cho Chang had ended almost as soon as their relationship had begun, and his subsequent month long almost-but-not-quite relationship with Ginny Weasley had convinced Harry that a relationship with anyone, especially women, was a bad idea until the whole Voldemort situation (and his raging hormones) was under control. And yet, somewhere between the calamity with Cho, the intense relationship with Ginny (which he had briefly revisited about halfway through the war, to the same messy end) and defeating Voldemort, Harry had developed a somewhat misguided interest in Draco Malfoy. Well, he’d developed a somewhat misguided interest in men in general, really. But Draco Malfoy was on the top of that list.

Now, six years later, though the world was blissfully Voldemort-free, Harry was not yet rid of his problem (though he had, at least, experimented with a few blokes), and was left with almost daily reminders of the object of his affection.

>   
> _Former Death Eater arrested for possession of Dark materials, 2nd term in Azkaban may follow_  
>  By Draco Malfoy  
>  _Daily Prophet_ Staff
> 
> LONDON – Gregory Goyle Sr., former member of the Dark Lord Voldemort’s inner circle, was arrested yesterday in London after Aurors found several illegal items in the man’s London home. 
> 
> The arrest comes hot on the heels of Mr. Goyle’s release from Azkaban prison last June. Goyle served a four year term in prison after cutting a deal with prosecutor’s following the Dark Lord’s defeat by the great Harry Potter six years ago. 
> 
> Aurors used information from Goyle to indict and convict several other members of Voldemort’s inner-circle, some of whom were responsible for the seizure of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and the subsequent execution of several students.
> 
> Aurors are, at this time, not releasing information as to what items were found in Goyle’s possession or what the Ministry intends to do with him. Mr. Goyle will be arraigned on Tuesday.

Harry groaned and set down that morning’s issue of _The Daily Prophet_ , pushing Draco Malfoy’s smirking visage away as it simpered coyly from the mug credit that accompanied the front page article. The Slytherin had started working for the paper almost immediately after school’s end, using his presence at the seizure of Hogwarts (dubbed Operation Sleeping Dragon by the media) and his knowledge of his father’s former cronies to pen exclusive pieces that were emblazoned across the front pages of the _Prophet_ for months after Voldemort’s defeat. Pretty soon, Harry’s former nemesis-turned-love-interest was the star reporter at the _Prophet_ , known for blowing the whistle on corruption at the Ministry or in the Quidditch League when his Death Eater beat died down.

A year after starting work there, he used his family fortune to buy out the paper, becoming the youngest publisher in the Wizarding World. Draco, of course, played the humble millionaire and insisted on staying with the job that he started, staying a reporter, but still managed to keep the editor firmly under his thumb in terms of running the newspaper exactly the way he wanted. He put the vile Rita Skeeter out of a job and replaced The _Prophet_ ’s exaggerated, tabloid style with a more sophisticated, hard news edge. 

And, of course, he started an offshoot of the _Prophet_ , _The Wizard Herald_ that covered all the splashier headlines and supplemented the faction of _Prophet_ readers who actually wanted to read a gossip rag every morning. Malfoy was a true businessman.

Harry, meanwhile, predictably entered Auror Academy after the Second Great War, finishing a record two years ahead of his fellow Operation Sleeping Dragon (OSD) survivors, and entered the workforce after only a year of training. The Ministry officials reckoned that taking down the greatest Dark Wizard of the age was enough training to chase after the occasional Dark wizard carrying a bit of contraband. 

Whenever any former Death Eaters did pop up, however, it was Harry’s job to take care of them. He was a senior officer on Kingsley Shacklebolt’s Death Eater Taskforce, the DET for short. Heaving a great sigh and taking one last bite of his toast, Harry got up from the kitchen table and grabbed his briefcase. He’d better get to the office soon – there would be a lot of shit to deal with when he got there.

***

Harry swept out of the lift, walking toward Auror Headquarters with swift, confident strides. Walking into the office, he found his cubicle quickly and set down his briefcase and coffee, reaching over to his tack board to retrieve his messages.

“Harry, so nice of you to join us,” a smug voice came up behind him and Harry turned, rolling his eyes at the speaker.

“Zacharias, good morning. Nice to see you, too,” He intoned sarcastically.

“You’re late, Potter.”

“I am not,” Harry huffed indignantly, checking his Muggle watch, which read 9:45 a.m. 

“You are, considering all the shit we’ve been dealing with this morning. _Prophet_ ’s got a story about Goyle on the front page this morning, which, as I’m sure you can imagine, is causing a bit of a problem.”

“I know; I saw it.” Harry sighed, taking a slug of his coffee. 

“Yeah, well, we’re fucked. No one was supposed to know we have him in custody, and now that bloody ponce Malfoy’s telling the whole world we’ve arrested him.”

“It’s better than the truth,” Harry offered.

Zacharias took his hands off his hips, gesturing angrily. “What? That we’ve taken him into protective custody? They shouldn’t know we have him at all. So how the fuck did Malfoy find out?” 

Harry shrugged. “He’s got sources, I guess. Last I checked, he was sleeping with Morag, maybe she told him.”

Zacharias shook his head. “Doesn’t have the clearance. Only people who know about this are you, me and a few others from the DET. Must’ve had one of his rats sneaking around. Fuckin’ reporters.”

“Yeah, fuckin’ reporters.” Harry smiled weakly, trying to drum up a hatred of the media to match Zacharias’s, but found himself at a loss. He actually didn’t mind the new _Prophet_. Though they sometimes got their details wrong (which usually had more to do with the Ministry purposely releasing false information to throw the public off), _The Prophet_ under Malfoy’s ownership was, by far, a better paper. It refrained, for the most part, from printing outright gossip, and Harry was more than pleased not to find himself the subject of a front-page romance scandal, as he’d been prone to in the past. Even the _Herald_ had been going easy on him of late, so Harry could hardly bear Malfoy and the papers any ill-will. 

Harry busied himself with his messages, answering an invitation from Ron to join him and Hermione for dinner later in the week and confirming a meeting with Arthur, who’d been Minister of Magic ever since Rufus Scrimgeour had been assassinated at Bellatrix Lestrange’s trial. Everything seemed to have worked out for everyone but him. 

Hermione and Ron were having their third child in March, Arthur was using his influence to temper anti-Muggle bigotry in the Wizarding world and even Professor Lupin was happy, having been restored his position as DADA professor three years ago. This, after the harsh laws impeding werewolves from gaining steady employment were done away with (in large part due to Hermione’s pestering her father-in-law until he had the laws changed). He had even found love with Professor Snape of all people, a development that had, in particular, made Harry rather unhappy about his chronically single state. When even Professor Snape could find love, and with a bloke to boot, it was obvious Harry had a problem. He seemed doomed to being a bachelor and it made him feel altogether sad and inadequate.

“Potter!”

Harry was jerked out of his reverie by Kinsley Shacklebolt’s booming voice.

“Potter, Smith – I need you downtown now. Another body’s been discovered. We don’t know who it is, but we’ve a pretty good idea what we’ll find,” Shacklebolt intoned.

Kingsley gave them a curt nod before sweeping back to his office.

“Right,” Harry said, standing and turning to Zacharias. “Let’s go.”

***

Zacharias and Harry arrived at the scene two minutes later by Apparition, popping into the middle of a dilapidated room, sparsely furnished and inhabited by dust motes that swirled about on the streams of light breaking through cracked and broken shutters.

“Ugh,” Harry muttered under his breath, kicking at the carcass of a deceased rat. “Somebody really lived here?”

“Don’t know,” Zacharias answered with a shrug. “Kingsley said they’d found the body here. Didn’t say it was the body’s home.”

“Nice.” Harry looked at his surrounding disparagingly. It was even worse than the Shrieking Shack.

They moved into the next room, looking for the dead body. They found it in the corner, hidden by the shadows. The man lay, sprawled on his back, eyes staring blankly at the splintering ceiling above.

“Ugh, couldn’t someone take care of that?” Zacharias said disgustedly, indicating the lifeless eyes. “Fuck, I hate being on body duty.”

Harry shrugged and knelt beside the prone figure, drawing his wand from his side pocket and muttering a few incantations. 

Zacharias had a mouth like a bloody sewer, but Harry was stuck with him as a partner and that was that. What Harry had once seen in him, he didn’t know, but after making a drunken pass at him a year earlier and being horrifically rebuffed, Harry was over it. Thank God he was able to pass it off as a drunken mistake, blaming Zacharias’ long, curly hair, which was just like a girl’s, or so he’d said. Zacharias got a hair cut the next day, and had never mentioned Harry’s proclivities, or what they may be, again.

“Looks like a simple Avada Kadavra,” Harry declared a minute later. “And he must not have been expecting it, what with his eyes being open with shock and all. Must have known the person who did it.”

“That sounds just like speculation to me. Who is he, anyway?”

“Theodore Nott,” Harry pronounced, standing up. “He was our year, in Slytherin. Turned informant at the end of the war.”

“Then it’s another targeted killing?”

“Looks like.” Harry sighed. He knew what this meant. “We have to go for Malfoy.”

“That poufter? Why bother? He has enough bodyguards to protect him, and I’d rather not have to deal with the little wanker,” Zacharias spat. 

“Bodyguards or not, he’s in serious danger. We can’t leave him unprotected.”

Zacharias threw him a look.

“What? I don’t like it any more than you do, but you know what Kinglsey said…”

“Right, right – protecting the innocent, blah blah blah,” Zacharias rolled his eyes. “Well, then let’s take care of this bastard and go see the prat.”

Harry nodded solemnly and shook his head. This was not going to be fun.

******

 _The Daily Prophet_ ’s offices were an interior designer’s wet dream: everything was modern and minimalist, and a brand new computer sat at every desk (how someone had talked Malfoy into using computers, Harry didn’t know). Malfoy must have increased the salary of every person working there when he bought the paper, because all the employees were dressed to the nines, and several women, including the receptionist, looked down their noses at Harry when he and Zacharias walked in. Harry scuffed his dirt-encrusted trainers on the recently buffed hardwood floors and pulled self-consciously at his poorly fitted smoking jacket. He really shouldn’t have let Molly pick out his entire wardrobe. He looked like a used car salesman.

“Mr. Malfoy’s office is this way, if you’ll follow me, please,” said the receptionist, who looked as if she hadn’t eaten anything for a week and had recently been sucking on a lemon, her expression was so sour. 

She led them past a sea of desks, arranged in an open plan style with offices lining the pit on three sides. All the offices had frosted glass floor to ceiling windows and equally transparent and frosted glass doors. It looked as though Malfoy was trying far too hard to pretend that everybody was equal, open and welcome anytime.

They finally came to Malfoy’s office, undoubtedly the one with the best view, and Zacharias pushed his way in ahead of Harry, snarking at Malfoy before his feet crossed the threshold.

“So do all the star reporters get a cushy office, or just the ones who own the paper?”

“Well, hello to you too, Mr. Smith,” Malfoy intoned, false enthusiasm dripping. “And Harry Potter! What a pleasure to see you both.”

Harry hovered near the door, inclining his head in Malfoy’s direction as a form of greeting, while Zacharias barrelled forward and plopped down in the chair that faced Malfoy’s desk.

“Oh, likewise, Malfoy,” Zacharias countered nastily. 

“What brings you here? I’m afraid I’m working on deadline, so you’ll have to make it quick.”

“We do this in our own time, you nasty little -” 

Harry cut him off, looking at Malfoy for the first time since they entered the office. “We need to take you into protective custody.”

Malfoy returned his gaze, and Harry thought he felt his insides melt. “Absolutely not.”

“You’re in danger.” 

“I’m always in danger, you half-wit,” Malfoy sneered. “What makes today different from any other day in the last six years? I’m just fine where I am, thank you.”

Harry continued, having since moved to Malfoy’s desk so he could keep Zacharias from opening his big mouth and saying something inappropriate. “Greg Goyle’s been receiving death threats. And who knows what Theodore Nott received, not that it matters a whit to him seeing as he’s dead.”

Malfoy seemed surprised, but remained stoic. “Nott is dead? And I take it then that Goyle _wasn’t_ arrested.”

“Nope, taken into protective custody. And that’s _off_ the record.” Harry threw Malfoy a pointed look. Malfoy frowned and muttered something that sounded like “arse” under his breath. Harry continued. “Someone is targeting former Death Eater informants, and you’re at the top of that list, Malfoy.”

“I don’t care,” Malfoy retorted. “You’re not taking me anywhere, nor will I have you dogging my steps every second. The press report about the press too, you know, and the last thing I need is to have my business splashed all over Page 4 of _The Wizard Chronicle_. In fact, your visit alone will raise a few eyebrows and, frankly, I’m sick of looking at your ugly clothing, Potter, so do leave.”

Harry frowned and pulled Zacharias out of his chair and out of the office before he could say anything nasty.

***

The next day, Theodore Nott’s obituary appeared on the front page of _The Daily Prophet_. Three nights later, Harry received an owl from Malfoy. It read:

_Potter,_

_All right, you bloody win._

_\- Malfoy_

_P.S. Was attacked in my home tonight, in case that wasn’t obvious._

Harry Floo-called Zacharias and Kingsley and they were at Malfoy’s London flat within three minutes.

A house-elf greeted them at the door and led them through a posh entrance hall to an even posher living room. Whereas the _Prophet_ ’s looks had been ultra modern and lacking in personality, Malfoy’s home was all antique furniture, original wood floors and beautiful tapestries that screamed “a bachelor with extremely good taste and an excess of cash lives here.” 

As Harry seated himself on a silk upholstered love seat, he wondered if Malfoy had ever fooled around with anyone on it. The very thought made him flush all over and he crossed his legs artfully, just in case his train of thought veered any further off course. The last thing he wanted was his partner, boss and former arch rival seeing him with a hard on.

Said former arch rival-turned-object of Harry’s affection waltzed in a minute later, dressed impeccably in crisp black trousers and a silk button-down plum-hued shirt, despite the fact that it was half four in the morning.

“Wow, Potter, why didn’t you just bring along the entire department while you were at it?” Malfoy said as he surveyed the three men seated in his drawing room.

“You said you’d been attacked. I thought that warranted more than one Auror.”

“It amazes me you were able to see beyond that annoying hero complex of yours. I expected you to come bursting through the doors, all by your little lonesome.”

Kingsley cleared his throat and spoke. “As amusing as I find this banter, Mr. Malfoy, we’re here on the very serious business of your being attacked. If you would, please sit down and give us the details of the incident.”

Malfoy sat himself down on an armchair across from the other three men and crossed his hands over his chest smugly. 

“I awoke when someone tried to get past the wards on my bedroom. I went to investigate, and before I could throw even a Stupefy in their direction, they had Apparated. That’s it.”

“You have separate wards on your bedroom?” Harry questioned, torn between amusement and morbid curiosity about what Malfoy could possibly get up to in his bedroom that warranted separate wards.

“Yes, Potter, I do,” Malfoy smirked. “You know, one is most likely to be attacked while sleeping, so I’ve taken extra precautions.”

Zacharias snorted derisively. “Sure it wasn’t one of your lovers you scared off, Malfoy? I’ve heard you have plenty.”

“Who I do or do not entertain in the privacy of my own bedroom is none of your business, Smith.”

“Oooh, touchy!”

“Gentlemen!” Kingsley boomed. “Mr. Malfoy, did you see your would-be attacker?”

“No,” Malfoy huffed. “It was dark and I didn’t want to bring any unnecessary attention to myself by turning on the lights.”

“Not a bad idea, Mr. Malfoy,” Kingsley nodded sagely. “If you’d said a Lumos, you might have found yourself on the other end of an Avada Kedavra. And informing us right away was the right thing to do. Now, I believe Mr. Potter has some ideas about your protective duty.” Kingsley nodded to Harry to take over.

“Oh, um, yes. We don’t think it would be the best idea to keep you in London at one of our facilities. You’re too high-profile and it would seem like the most obvious choice to keep you in Wizarding London.”

“I don’t like the sound of this,” Malfoy frowned. “Get on with it.”

Smith made a small sound in his throat that sounded to Harry like something halfway between a laugh and a snarl. Harry shot him a look and continued.

“We’ll be taking you to an undisclosed location outside of the city. Only Zacharias, myself and Kingsley will know our location, so you’ll be completely safe.”

“Unless one of you is the one trying to kill me,” Malfoy said dryly. 

Zacharias looked like he was seriously considering it. Malfoy continued.

“And ‘our’ location? Who, may I ask, is going with me?” 

Harry looked to Zacharias, who was gritting his teeth, and Kingsley, who had a small smile on his lips. It was obvious what he had to do.

“I am,” he answered.

Malfoy simply rolled his eyes.

****

“A cottage, Potter? A _Welsh_ cottage?” Malfoy flailed his arms about a bit and looked cross.

Harry had gathered a few things from home, gone back to Malfoy’s flat and then they’d taken a Portkey to the safe house around five a.m. that morning. Now he was being subjected to an earful from his reluctant companion. 

Malfoy continued his tirade. “We couldn’t at least hole up in an abandoned castle or something? My family has quite a bit of property up north, and -”

Harry interrupted him: “The point is to keep you hidden, not give you a private holiday where any number of former Death Eaters can pay you a visit anytime. We need to be discreet.”

“Well, it’s certainly _discreet_. We’ll need to use a bit of magic to spruce up the place, of course. Install some state-of-the-art features -”

“We’re not using any magic.”

“WHAT?!”

“What part of ‘discreet’ didn’t you get?” Harry questioned, annoyed. Was Malfoy an idiot, or was he doing this just to annoy him? He sighed. “You and I have very distinctive magical signatures. It would take any half-way decent wizard about an hour to trace us.”

“You’re crazy! They’ve landed me with the loony Auror. I demand a replacement and another location.”

“What? You want to spend the next few weeks with Zacharias? You may not like me, Malfoy, but I assure you that Smith will give you a much harder time of it than I would.”

Malfoy huffed and surveyed his surroundings. 

The cottage was quaint, set back away off the country road, smelled like slightly rotted cabbage and appeared to have been decorated by either Harry’s old neighbour Mrs. Figg or by Delores Umbridge, if all the porcelain, ruffles and kitten motifs were anything to go by. There was one large living room/dining room combination with a kitchen behind it, and two small rooms and a bathroom upstairs.

“Can we at least spell the smell away?” Malfoy asked, apparently resigned to his situation.

“No, but we can open the windows and buy some air freshener at the supermarket this afternoon.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes to slits. “And how long are you going to keep me here?”

“As long as it takes Zacharias and Kingsley to figure out who’s threatening your life.” Harry shrugged. “Could be a few weeks, could be a few months.”

“I am _not_ living up some cosy gay fantasy of yours for a few _months_ Potter. I, unlike you, have a business to run.”

Harry blushed, but managed to stomach the urge to jump behind the couch and hide by snarking back. “That’s the beauty of your _humble_ nature, Malfoy. You’re still just a reporter, not the editor-in-chief, remember? You set everything up to look like everyone else was still in charge. So it looks like everyone else is in charge.” 

“Damn it.” 

“Look on the bright side, Malfoy. We have all the greatest Muggle amenities: television, DVD player, the internet.”

Malfoy looked at Harry like he was a crazy person.

“You don’t think we should use magic, but it’s okay to use the _internet_?” 

“That’s the beautiful thing about bigoted pure blood wizards who are trying to kill you,” Harry grinned. “They have no idea how to do an IP trace.”

***

After both of them had napped for a few hours and settled into their rooms (Harry gave Draco the master bedroom to head off any problems), they drove into town to grab some things at the market. Okay, _Harry_ drove them into town. Draco scoffed at the notion of using the “ridiculous Muggle contraption” and declared he’d rather Apparate, at which point Harry glibly informed him that the cottage and everything within a half-mile had been warded against Apparition. Draco grumbled something like, “no bloody way I’m walking that far,” and got into the car.

Shopping was uneventful, aside from Draco rolling his eyes on more than one occasion muttering about “bloody accents” every time someone tried speaking to them. 

“Where are we exactly?” Malfoy asked on the way home. 

Harry pointed to the sign at the side of the road. It read “Welcome to Abergavenny.” 

“See, we’re in Wales,” Harry said cheerfully

“Well, I _know_ that. But how the hell do you even say that?” Malfoy screwed up his face unattractively and gave it a go. “Aber-guh-veiny?”

Harry laughed. “It’s pronounced ‘Aber-van-whey,’ Malfoy. If you try to say everything literally, you’ll get laughed out of the country.” Concentrating on the road as he spoke, Harry gave a minute shrug. “You’ll get used to it.”

“What? Does the great Harry Potter also speak Welsh?” Malfoy retorted, eyeing a cow by the side of the road and giving it his patented death glare.

“No,” Harry answered simply. “But I don’t think it’s that hard to learn the name of the village we’re living in. I asked at the supermarket. You were too busy mumbling and looking put out.” Harry glanced at Malfoy, who had slouched down and was scowling petulantly out the window, and tried not to think about the elegant line of his jaw, how clean and soft his hair looked. He looked away before Malfoy could catch him at it.

***

Harry decided to fix a Shepherd’s Pie that night, which they took out into the garden to eat. There was about an acre of property behind the cottage before it was met with a sharply inclined, fir tree-lined hill. Someone had filled in the backyard with a Greek-inspired garden, complete with mini statuettes, a fountain, winding stone paths, rose bushes and a gazebo. Harry and Draco sat themselves at a rickety stone table place halfway between the end of the garden and the back door. Malfoy nearly lost his balance as the short bench he tried to sit on wobbled sharply to the left. Harry suppressed a laugh and dug into his dinner, while Malfoy sneered at his poorly concealed amusement and picked disdainfully at his food.

“What? You don’t like Shepherd’s Pie?” Harry asked between bites.

“I like Shepherd’s Pie just fine,” Malfoy answered. “What I don’t like is this damn table. And the cats.” A ginger tabby cat leapt onto the table and nudged Malfoy’s elbow with its head, while a black cat rubbed itself against his leg. (Harry had a calico perched next to him on his bench, looking at his dinner expectantly). 

Harry shrugged. “They came with the property.” 

“There are _half a dozen_ , Potter!”

Harry chuckled. Maybe Mrs. Figg _did_ have something to do with the safe house. 

Shoveling another bite full of lamb and potatoes into his mouth, Harry shrugged and said, “I think they’re sweet.” 

“You would,” Malfoy snorted. He took a dainty bite of his food, a demonstration Harry suspected was made entirely for his benefit. Taking a whopping bite of pie, Harry said his next sentence while chewing, with his mouth open, just to spite him. 

“I grew up around cats. Plus Hermione had Crookshanks, so I guess I’m just used to them.” He swallowed, ignoring Malfoy’s appalled expression. “I always wanted a dog, but… well, yeah.”

“Your relatives had cats, then?” Malfoy asked.

“The Dursleys?” Harry snorted. “No, they hated animals. Mrs. Figg had all the cats. She was the Squib Dumbledore had living on my street to keep an eye on me,” Harry clarified at Malfoy’s puzzled expression. “I would go over when the Dursleys went out, and she would show me photo albums of all her cats. Bloody annoying they were, but sweet.”

“I heard your relatives were absolutely horrid,” Malfoy said, without any particular tact.

“Who told you that?” Harry was taken aback. 

Shrugging, Malfoy replied, “Heard things. Granger and the Weasel might have mentioned something once or twice. You know, after.” Malfoy looked suddenly uncomfortable.

Harry quickly averted his eyes and looked at his hands instead, allowing Malfoy a minute. It hadn’t been Voldemort’s massacre of those he considered disloyal at Azkaban, including Lucius Malfoy, or even the vicious beating Draco had endured after faltering at the killing of a Muggle family. No, it was Voldemort’s subsequent killing of Draco’s mother to further punish Draco’s inaction that had done it. Draco defected the next day, coming to 12 Grimmauld Place looking worn, beaten and broken. For the second time in less than six months, Harry had seen Draco Malfoy cry. That day Harry began to see him as a person. Two weeks later, he began to see him as the object in his wank fantasies, and the horrible, sad saga of Harry’s misguided affection for Malfoy had begun.

“Well, yeah,” Harry ventured, “they were pretty awful. They hated magic, so I was never exactly welcome.”

“They said you slept in a cupboard,” Draco said, then quickly backtracked. “Weasel and Granger, I mean.”

“Yep,” Harry said matter-of-factly. “For eleven years.”

“That’s child abuse!” Malfoy exclaimed incredulously.

“You’re one to talk!” Harry retorted.

“Excuse me?”

“I heard things, too. About your father,” Harry clarified. “I mean, you don’t have to be a genius to figure what it was like for you growing up.”

“I was not abused!” Malfoy’s face was bright red and he looked ready to throttle Harry. “My parents loved me!” 

At the anguish in Draco’s voice, Harry recoiled, realizing his mistake. He hadn’t meant to upset him so, no matter what he said to deserve it. (And if Harry were being honest, the Dursleys treatment of him was tantamount to child abuse) 

“Draco, I’m sorry! I just thought that -” Harry reached over and touched the back of Malfoy’s hand. Malfoy jerked away, his eyes bright, brows knitted together.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” He tried to get up, but the heavy stone bench impeded his progress. Tripping over his feet as he jumped up, Malfoy continued. “You don’t know anything, Potter. So fuck off!” He left his dinner sitting half eaten on the table and disappeared into his room for the rest of the night. 

Harry could just kick himself. Here he’d thought the most he’d have to worry about was spontaneously getting an erection in Malfoy’s presence, or trying to kiss him (which Harry was sure he’d do if he had enough to drink). But no, he’d only driven him into a blinding rage on their first day. Talking about the war obviously wasn’t going to work, which put a major hitch in things, as far as Harry’s assignment was concerned. Finding out who was after Malfoy just became twice as difficult.

***

Malfoy spent the rest of the week ignoring Harry. As they were only inhabiting about 800 square feet of space, the result was rather awkward and, Harry found, both amusing and irritating. 

Harry always woke up first, leading him to believe that either Malfoy was treating this as a vacation, sleeping in to avoid him or that he normally slept until 10, which must have made him quite the popular boss, indeed. Harry would eat his breakfast, read the _Daily Prophet_ and surf the internet for about an hour (doing “research” – he was absolutely, definitely _not_ looking at porn), at which point Malfoy would appear, reheat the tea Harry always left out for him, pick up the paper and adjourn to the living room, where he would sit for the next hour, fastidiously ignoring Harry some more. 

At 12:30, Harry would prepare lunch, try to make conversation with Malfoy for about a minute, give up and eat in front of the telly while he watched the BBC afternoon news. At 2 he watched “Neighbours,” which Draco would pretend not to watch, and then Harry would either read, write to Hermione and Ron or surf the internet some more (really, seriously _not_ looking at porn – at least, not when Draco was in the room). All this time, Malfoy would wander in and out of the house, interchangeably sighing dramatically and glaring at Harry.

In the evenings, Harry would perform the same ritual as with lunch: cook, attempt conversation, give up and watch the news and “East Enders” (which Draco would, once again, pretend not to watch). They both watched telly or read, always in the same space but never speaking, until they went to bed so the cycle could begin again. How Malfoy managed to go so long without talking, Harry didn’t know. It was quite uncanny, really.

On the sixth day of Malfoy’s silent protest, Zacharias stopped by to check on them. He knocked forcefully, shocking Harry out of a nap as he dozed on the sofa, and gave Harry a lascivious grin as soon as he opened the door. Harry had never been so thankful to see someone in his life. His relief was short-lived.

“So how’s our eager, young captive?” Zacharias began jovially, dropping his Portkey onto the side table by the front door and plopping down on the couch. “Has the pouf tried to fuck you yet?”

Harry tried not to choke on his own saliva.

“Zacharias, hi.” Harry shut the door and took a seat. “Malfoy’s out in the garden and... um, how are things?”

Zacharias quirked an eyebrow and grinned. “You’re such a girl, Potter. Blushing, you are. Things are fine. We’ve been leaning heavy on Goyle all week and Kingsley thinks we’re almost near a break. There’s obviously some connection between Nott’s death and the threats made on Goyle, but he’s being tight lipped about which of his former colleagues may be after him. How’s the fairy princess?”

There was a snort from behind them, and Harry turned his head to see Malfoy walking toward them. “Princess, Smith? Try and be more original, why don’t you?” He took a seat in the armchair sat adjacent to the couch. “But, to answer your question, I’m bored out of my fucking mind and wondering when I can go home.”

“You’ll stay here as long as it takes, Malfoy,” Zacharias answered coldly.

“Then do me a bloody favour, get off your arse and expedite the whole fucking process,” Malfoy snapped. “How hard can it be to find a rogue Death Eater? It’s only your bloody job.”

Ignoring Malfoy and turning to Harry, Zacharias inquired, “What’s his fucking problem?”

Harry snorted. “He’s been in a snit all week.”

Malfoy’s mouth dropped open in outrage and he spoke to Harry in full sentences for the first time all week. 

“I have not been in a snit, Potter! You’ve been acting like my fucking nursemaid!” 

“Oh, then what the fuck would you call it?” Harry retorted. “You haven’t spoken to me except for a few monosyllabic answers all week!”

“Where the hell did you learn a word like monosyllabic, Potter?” It was half a witty retort and half an honest question.

“Are you saying I’m stupid?” Harry hissed.

“Obviously.” Malfoy looked at him in challenge.

Zacharias rolled his eyes. “God, you two are fucking annoying.” He scanned the room for anything that might hold a drop of liquor. “Do you have anything to drink? It’s Friday night and I’m sober. This is a problem.”

Malfoy snorted. Zacharias glared at him.

“I guess we could go into town to the pub,” Harry ground out, glaring at Malfoy. A week of silence and the first real conversation they have is in the form of an argument in front of Zacharias.

“Perfect!” Zacharias answered. He was on his feet and at the door before Harry could continue. 

Harry spoke as he got up and gestured to Malfoy to follow, who narrowed his eyes and gave a rather rude gesture in return before following. “I’ve heard the one in Abergavenny is a dive, but the woman at the supermarket told me about one in a neighbouring village.”

They stepped into the chilly night and Zacharias eyed the slightly beat-up car. 

“Do we really have to take that… _thing_?”

“Unfortunately,” Malfoy answered for him.

Harry rolled his eyes and got in the car. Zacharias shrugged, pushed Malfoy out of the way and hopped in the front seat. Malfoy kicked him in the back the entire way.

****

The pub was full but the mood was subdued. The crowd was mostly older, village-folk, but the drinks were cheap and the barmaid was a pleasant young woman who winked at Harry and passed him three Bacardi and Cokes before he could place an order. 

Zacharias sneered as he took his first sip, throwing Harry a look before shrugging and accepting the free drink. “What exactly is this place called?” he asked.

“Llandewi Breffi,” Harry answered, sipping his own drink, which was quite pleasant. He wondered why the barmaid had selected it for them. Her specialty, perhaps?

Zacharias looked confused.

“Don’t ask him to spell it,” Draco said with a smirk. “Nothing here makes any sense to the English.”

Zacharias grunted in agreement. Harry rolled his eyes. 

“Why the bloody hell are you in Wales, Potter?” Zacharias continued his assault. “Couldn’t go somewhere nice, like the South of France? Scotland, even!”

“Hear, hear,” Malfoy retorted, smirking at Harry.

“I like Wales,” Harry ground out, finishing the rest of his drink in one go. This was going to be a long and difficult evening. “Besides, Kingsley offered me a list of safe houses, and this was on it. The Ministry’s the one that chose to set up a place in Wales, not me.”

Slamming his empty glass down on the table, Harry got up and headed over to the bar before the other two could ask him any more baiting questions. Malfoy was annoying enough on a daily basis, and he could tolerate Zacharias when they worked together, but the two of them together was just too much. He was sorely tempted to just hex them and be done with it.

The barmaid stopped talking to an overweight blond bloke and came over to Harry.

“Tough night, love?” she asked, a kind look in her eyes. Harry inclined his head in silent assent. She smiled at him. “What can I get you then, another Bacardi and Coke?” 

Thinking it over a minute, Harry answered, “Actually, I’d like a shot of tequila, if you’ve got it.” 

Her smile broke into a full-on grin and she winked at him. “Of course, love. Coming right up!”

Harry snuck a glance back at Zacharias and Malfoy and saw they’d returned to staring each other down. Heaving himself up onto a bar stool, Harry sighed and rested his head in his hands. Drinking in the presence of Malfoy, who could now give Harry spontaneous hard-ons like a bloody teenager, and with a homophobe like Smith around was an exceedingly bad idea.

The barmaid came back and plunked down a large shot glass filled with tequila, a salt shaker and a plate holding four lime wedges.

“I thought you could use a double, no extra charge.” She winked again.

Harry smiled wanly in thanks and downed the shot in one go, not even bothering with the salt or lime. The barmaid raised an eyebrow.

“So which one of them is your boyfriend, then?” she asked.

Harry’s eyebrows shot up and he started stammering. “He’s… I’m not… They’re…, um, neither!” he finished.

“Sure,” she said wryly. “Well, if neither is your boyfriend, then, you’d at least like one of them to be. I could tell that from here. Blond’s obviously your type…” she trailed off, looking over Harry’s shoulder at Zach and Draco. Harry turned to look and saw Malfoy idly running his thumb over his lower lip. His insides liquefied.

Harry turned back to the barmaid and frowned. “The slight one,” he admitted finally. 

“The one with the straight hair?” she asked, indicating Malfoy on the left. 

Harry nodded. She quirked her head in thought.

“He’s very pretty.”

“Yep,” Harry said dejectedly, running his thumb round the edge of the shot glass. Thank God the tequila was starting to kick in. 

“I’m Myfanwy, by the way.” She smiled at him again (she did that a lot, he noticed) and offered him her hand to shake. “What brings you round here, anyway? You’re clearly not native.”

He looked up at her, bleary eyed. She was nice. Nice, nice, nice. The tequila was kicking in.

“Holiday. Family’s from around here.”

“And your… friends?” she said that last word with an uncertain edge.

“Former schoolmate and colleague,” he explained, inclining his head to the right and left accordingly. “They, um, needed a holiday, too.”

“They don’t seem to like each other much,” she said matter-of-factly.

Harry turned. Zacharias and Malfoy appeared to be arguing. 

“No, they really don’t.”

Draco appeared to grow fed up with whatever Zacharias was saying. He left the table and came over to the bar, eyeing Harry on his stool, and purposely moved about ten feet down the bar from him.

“I need something stronger than whatever this shite was,” he slammed his empty glass on the counter and gave Myfanwy a look.

“How about a tequila then, love?” she suggested mock-sweetly. “Your friend here’s just had two doubles,” she baited him, pointing at Harry while smirking.

“Has he now? I didn’t know you were an alcoholic, Potter.” He eyed Myfanwy in challenge. “Give me three.

“Three doubles?” She looked at him as if he were crazy.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” he snipped. 

“All right then, it’s your funeral.” Myfanwy shook her head, laid three double shot glasses out in front of Malfoy and filled them. “Will you be needing the salt and limes then, love?”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “Did _he_ use them?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t need them, either. I like it straight-up. And you should send the same to him,” he jerked his shoulder in the direction of Zacharias. “On me.”

Myfanwy shrugged and delivered three shots of tequila to Zacharias, who looked surprised, but didn’t turn them down. She went back over to Harry, who was watching Draco throw back all three shots in quick succession.

“Your friend is mad.”

“I know,” Harry slurred, tapping his fingers idly on the bar. 

“He’s also slept with the other blond bloke over there.”

Harry’s snapped temporarily out of his stupor. “What?”

“Oh, definitely,” she mused. “With the way they were talking, gesturing and then him coming over here trying to get royally pissed? They’ve had a lover’s tiff, they have. Either that or he’s working up the courage to make a move on you,” she grinned.

“There is _no way_ he slept with Zacharias,” Harry protested. “Zacharias is the biggest homophobe I know.”

“What’s he doing bein’ friends with you then?” Her eyes twinkled. “Listen. It’s sometimes those who do the most talking who turn out to be the biggest poufs. Or the biggest poufs who have the least to talk about.” She chuckled to herself, as if at a private joke. 

“All I’m sayin’ is that that bloke,” she pointed at Zacharias, who was now muttering into an empty shot glass and shooting Malfoy death glares every minute or so, “has shagged your friend. Or wants to. And I don’t think he likes that very much.”

Harry remained silent for a moment. “I think I need another drink.”

Myfanwy laughed. “Coming right up love. How about something a little lighter than tequila? Maybe inspire your bloke,” she gestured at Malfoy, “to slow down a bit? With the way he’s so concerned about bettering you, I’d say he wouldn’t mind ending up in your bed tonight.” She paused. “In which case, perhaps I should pour you another tequila.” She paused again. “And maybe send a few more to your other friend, as well.”

Zacharias looked like he was going to cry. Or kill something. Harry nodded. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just...” He tried to get up. And promptly fell off the stool.

“Or maybe just a water, love?” Myfanwy called down to him.

***

An hour later, and Harry was annoyingly sober. Malfoy and Zacharias, unfortunately, were not.

“Why are you wearing that bloody PVC costume, you pouf?” Zacharias yelled at the fat blond bloke Myfanwy had been talking with earlier. He looked like he was about to cry. Zacharias looked ridiculously pleased with himself. Harry wanted to die.

“Zacharias, please, let’s go,” he tried easing him toward the door.

“No!” Zacharias pulled himself from Harry’s grip. Draco moaned from a nearby table, clutching his head and grumbling about a headache. Zacharias continued his drunken tirade. “What is it about all these bloody poufs coming on to me. I’M NOT A BLOODY SHIRTLIFTER!”

“S’not the impression I got, Smith when I was fucking you,” Malfoy got up, stumbled, and waggled a finger at Zacharias. “You looooove it. My cock,” he over-enunciated the ‘ck’ and continued, “up your arse.” He giggled. “You are soooo gay for me, Smith!”

The blond in the admittedly ridiculous PVC costume turned green at the word cock and ran out of the pub. Myfanwy looked torn between amusement and anger. Harry wished she would throw them out before Zacharias and Malfoy embarrassed him any further.

“You fucking ponce!” Zacharias shrieked, launching himself at Malfoy.

Too late. Harry groaned and threw himself in between the two men, who were now on the floor, kicking each other and trying to get in a few good punches to each other’s face (well, Zacharias was punching, Malfoy was batting his hands against Zacharias’ fists, trying to get him away). After successfully pulling Zacharias off Malfoy (oh, if only he could use a Stupefy on him!), Harry frog-marched the soused Auror to the car as Malfoy trailed behind.

“You two are going to get in this car and be civil to each other until we get home. I don’t care who slept with whom,” – Zacharias opened his mouth to protest – “or who is or isn’t a pouf. I’m so bloody embarrassed, I could just spit. Now get in the car!”

Malfoy smirked at Zacharias and hopped into the front seat before he could get there. They drove back in complete silence, and once they arrived at the cottage, Malfoy went inside while Harry retrieved Zacharias’ Portkey. 

“Zacharias, you idiot, we didn’t even discuss the case,” Harry snapped as he shoved the crumpled soda can into his hands.

Zacharias looked sheepish, though he was obviously still angry. 

“Email me in the bloody morning, yeah?” Harry continued. “That is, if you remember any of this. And watch your landing with the Portkey.” 

Zacharias nodded, pointed his wand at the Portkey and activated it on his third try (his pronunciation was still a bit slurred). Harry headed back inside, only to be met by Malfoy at the door.

“You know,” Malfoy smiled coyly, “you giving orders back there at the pub was kind of hot.”

Harry’s mouth fell open, as Malfoy turned on his heel and made his way clumsily up the stairs. For one, Harry was confused. But he was also seriously turned on (to be honest, the wrestling match at the bar had made Harry just as horny as he was embarrassed). He crossed the living room to the computer. He had some internet surfing to do.

***

Harry slept in the next morning, which meant when he went down to the kitchen, Malfoy was already there, preparing his own tea. Annoyed to find Malfoy had only boiled enough water for one cup, Harry put the kettle back on and set about making himself some toast. Five minutes later, he sat across from Malfoy, who was quietly sipping his tea and drumming his fingers on the table.

“So you’re gay, then,” Harry challenged.

“Not strictly speaking,” Malfoy said evasively. 

“What does that mean? And I guess this means you're talking to me now?”

Malfoy sighed, furrowing his brow as if he were still deciding. “Well, I’m bloody tired of having no one to talk to, especially since it seems your partner is as incompetent at his job as he is in bed, and we might be here for a while. Besides, I think I illustrated my point.”

“And what was your point, exactly?” Harry replied testily.

“Don’t fucking talk about my parents.”

“You talk about my parents all the time!” Harry said, exasperated. “You teased me about being an orphan, for Christ’s sake. And, besides, I thought it was about me touching your hand, not your parents.”

“Maybe I didn’t appreciate your unwanted sexual advances.”

“That was not a sexual advance!” Harry protested. “You were upset, I tried to comfort you. And tell me what ‘not strictly speaking’ means? What, you’re bi?”

“Don’t use base Muggle concepts with me, Potty,” Malfoy replied, looking pleased with himself for using the somewhat retro epithet for Harry. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms against his chest, proudly. “I sleep with whomever I want, when I want. I wanted to sleep with your dimwitted partner, so I did. And no matter how much he protests it now, he wanted it as much as I did.”

“Man, if I’d known…” Harry let the end of his thought hang. He wasn't sure what he would have done, honestly.

“You would have pushed him over your desk and shagged the living daylights out of him?” Malfoy supplied, mock-helpfully.

“No!”

Malfoy stifled a laugh. “Oh, please, Potter. You’re queerer than a pride parade.”

“I am not!”

“No one’s a bachelor for six years unless they’re hiding something. And you’re hiding a desire for cock.”

When had this turned into the gay inquisition? Harry chewed his toast more than was strictly necessarily and finally managed a weak aside: “You’re just as vulgar as Zacharias.”

Malfoy gave a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders. “Yeah, I guess so. Though I try not to pepper my speech with as many racial slurs.” He quirked an eyebrow. “How on earth do you work with him?”

“I just do,” Harry replied matter-of-factly. “He’s the only other senior officer in the DET, so I’m kind of stuck with him.”

“Oooh, Harry Potter, stuck in a dead-end desk job. Bet that ticks you off something rotten. I reckon you thought you’d be in charge by now.”

Malfoy was trying to bait him. Harry decided it wouldn’t work. He shrugged. “It’s not a desk job and you know it.” Malfoy half rolled his eyes in concession and Harry continued. “And I don’t want to be in charge. Frankly, I like my lower-level job. It’s nice not having to bear the responsibility of everything for once. I wouldn’t want Kingsley’s job.”

“So you’re not a career Ministry man, then?”

Harry chewed thoughtfully on his toast a moment before answering. Malfoy leaned forward and played with the butter knife.

“I don’t think so, no,” Harry finally answered. Malfoy’s mouth fell open in a small ‘o’ of surprise. “I just want to clean up the mess from the war, and then I’ll figure it out. I don’t really have to work, anyhow.”

“Oh? Are you hiding some fortune away?” Malfoy grinned jovially. 

“Yes, actually, not that it’s any of your business,” Harry jibbed half-heartedly. “But you’re one to talk – you don’t exactly have to work for a living.”

“I really don’t do that much work, anymore. I hire competent people to do it for me. Then I reap all the benefits,” Malfoy grinned self-assuredly and waggled his toast at Harry. “You know, I’ve tripled the Malfoy fortune in the same amount of time it took my father to spend half of it.”

Harry put his tea cup down and gave what he knew was a puzzled expression.

“The Dark Lord needed… funds,” Malfoy grimaced, setting his toast back down. “How is it you don’t know that? The Ministry did a full audit of our estate. I was lucky to get what was left after the estate went out of probate. _That’s_ why I went to work in the first place. It was bloody awful.”

A surprisingly comfortable silence fell between them. Harry finished off his tea and played with some stray bits of toast.

After another moment, Harry pondered, “Did we just have a conversation?”

“I think so, yes.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “If you print any of this, I’ll kill you. All _off_ the record.”

“Damn! And ‘Harry Potter forsakes fortune, guns down entire Auror office in a bitter rage’ would have made such a great headline,” Malfoy said with a grin.

“Shut up,” Harry grumbled, glaring at him.

“You know that can be arranged.”

“You stop talking again, and I’ll tell everyone you like Muggle soap operas,” Harry threatened.

“I do not -”

“Yes, you do.”

Malfoy scowled momentarily before his eyes lit up and he grinned, mischievously. 

“Well, you look at porn on the internet!”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. How did _he_ know? “I do NOT!”

“I’ve seen you, Potter.” Malfoy looked like the cat that got the cream.

“What do you mean, you’ve seen me?” Harry was dying. He was sure his face was purple by now, he was blushing so hard.

“I sat on the stairs and watched, you dimwit. You were so distracted you didn’t even notice. You really do wank quite a lot, you know. Don’t think I don’t hear you in the shower, too. Or at night.”

“You wank in the shower, too!” Harry countered weakly.

“Of course I do, I’m a 25-year-old male,” Malfoy answered matter-of-factly. “I don’t care if you know it, but you seem to. I’d say you were a prude, but I know what kind of porn you’ve been watching.” Malfoy gave a saucy grin. “Rimming, Potter? How kinky of you.”

Inwardly, Harry was dying a slow, painful death. Outside, he was trying to act sufficiently outraged. 

“How the hell do you know that?!?!”

Malfoy rolled his eyes and starting ticking off on his fingers. “One, you don’t keep the volume down _that_ low, Potter. Get yourself some headphones, for Merlin’s sake. Two, you don’t keep your porn folder _that_ well hidden. Hiding it with Granger and Weasel’s baby photos is hardly a significant deterrent.” He threw him a ‘what kind of idiot do you take me for’ look and continued. “And three, you don’t clear your cache. The Muggleborn girls at the office have taught me that much about computers. I even took a course when the _Prophet_ went digital. I’m very handy with a mouse.” He smirked. 

“And really,” he continued just for the heck of it, “not talking to you for a week left me with very little to do, so uncovering your little porn habit was all I could do not to go stark raving loony.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. All he knew was that he wanted out of this conversation as fast as possible.

“Malfoy you… suck,” he finished lamely. “And you can make your own damn lunch.”

Rising abruptly, Harry stalked upstairs, took a quick shower (and made it a point _not_ to wank while he was there) and went into town, ostensibly to do some shopping, when really he just wanted to get as far away from Malfoy as possible.

***

When Harry returned hours later, Draco was sitting on the couch, eating leftover stew and watching some DIY programme on the BBC. Harry had barely got in the door when Draco started talking.

“You know, I don’t think it’s considered generally a good idea to leave your charge alone when there’s a madman on the loose trying to kill him. Or didn’t they teach you that at Auror school?”

“We’re allowed to make exceptions when our charges are being complete twats,” Harry bit back, crossing the living room into the kitchen and laying his shopping down on the kitchen table.

Draco snorted. “Now I know you’re gay,” he raised his voice so Harry could hear him in the kitchen, “the only time I’ve ever been called a twat was at a gay club in Edinburgh. You’re a walking stereotype now, Potter.”

Harry leaned against the kitchen door and glared testily at him. “Fuck off.”

Malfoy turned, saw the look on Harry’s face and grinned. Turning back to the telly, which he had muted but was still watching, he continued. “So, how long have you been a poufter, then? And did you figure it out before or after you proved a complete failure at pleasing the opposite sex in bed?”

“I was not,” Harry started hotly, but stopped himself. “What on earth are you talking about, Malfoy?” he asked with forced calmness, walking over to sit next to Malfoy in his favorite armchair.

“Ginny Weasley was rather forthcoming to me in a bar a few years back,” he smirked. “I mean, you get a few drinks in her and she’s off! I was kind enough not to print them in my paper, though.” He jabbed a finger in Harry’s direction. “You owe me for that.”

“Oh _do_ I?” Harry slouched in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest grumpily. “Why the hell would you do me a favour? If this alleged conversation ever really took place, that is.”

“Wow, ‘alleged,’ Potter! First ‘monosyllabic,’ now ‘alleged’? You sure you’re not really a journalist under there?” Malfoy looked him up and down, appraisingly. Harry’s stomach fluttered and he had to remind him self to glare particularly hard in order to stop from whimpering. Malfoy didn’t notice. 

“And, frankly, it was less a favour and more an effort to keep my arse off your hit list. The ink on my pardon was barely dry at the time, and I liked not being holed up in Azkaban. I liked having my money back, too,” he added almost as an aside. “Pissing off the Boy Wonder would have been a stupid move.”

“It wasn’t because you found me ‘hot’?” Harry asked, trying to get the upper hand. 

“Hardly,” Malfoy snorted.

“That’s not what you said last night,” Harry not-so-gently reminded him with a smirk.

“Anything I may or may not have said last night was under the influence of copious amounts of liquor and cannot be taken at face value,” Malfoy said, dismissing Harry with a wave of his hand. “I’m sure, if I did say you were hot, that I was merely commenting on your being sweaty or discoloured.”

“You wish,” Harry snorted. “So, if that’s the case, couldn’t it be said that anything my ex-girlfriend said whilst drunk doesn’t count? Following your logic, I mean.” Harry inclined his head toward Malfoy.

“Oh, she didn’t just say it while drunk, Potter. She reiterated it, completely sober, after I got through fucking her through the floor.” Malfoy looked Harry directly in the eyes, in challenge. “Said you couldn’t compare to me in a million years. Something about stage fright?”

Harry was grinding his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. 

“You’re a fucking arsehole, Malfoy.”

“Oh, lighten up, Potter.” Malfoy rolled his eyes, giving up the triumphant arsehole act. “She didn’t say that, exactly. You’re too easy, you know.” Malfoy’s expression suddenly went all stony and serious, almost questioning. “But she did say that you didn’t seem that interested. I just assumed, and, frankly, I think she did too, that you weren’t that interested in women.”

Harry clenched his jaw and stared resolutely at the floor, trying with all his strength not to hex Malfoy. 

The doorbell rang. Harry’s head snapped up, and Malfoy looked at him, perplexed. Only two people knew where they were, and Harry was sure Kingsley wouldn’t come by personally. So it had to be - 

“It’s just me, Harry. Open the fucking door!” Zacharias’ voice bellowed through the wood door.

“Oh grand,” Malfoy muttered as Harry got to his feet and crossed over to the door. Zacharias looked just awful, with dark circles under his eyes and a sheepish, guilty look on his face.

“What are you doing here, Zacharias?” Harry questioned. 

“I thought I should come in person. To, um, apologise,” he answered sheepishly. And then, after a beat: “And you know I fucking hate email, Potter.”

That was more like the Zach Harry knew and very nearly liked. 

Zacharias swept past Harry, into the living room, where Malfoy was now standing, his arms crossed over his chest, face laced with disdain. Zacharias gave the most minute of nods in Malfoy’s direction as they addressed each other.

“Malfoy.”

“Smith.” 

Zacharias cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, I need to speak to Harry alone. You and I can… settle our issues after.” Zacharias threw Malfoy a look that brooked no argument. 

“Fine,” Malfoy answered shortly. “If you need me, I’ll be reading in the garden.” He turned and exited through the kitchen door.

As soon as they heard the back door slam, Zacharias collapsed on the sofa and let out an exasperated sigh.

“Harry, I’m sorry about last night. It was unprofessional, and I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

Harry returned to his seat, and slouched back comfortably. This would be a long, labourious conversation, for sure.

“I understand, Zacharias, I do,” he answered sympathetically before remembering his frustration and anger. “But what the hell was that with you and Malfoy? You could have bloody warned me, at least.”

Zacharias sighed. “ _That_ was what happens when I get drunk, apparently – I do very stupid things with Draco Malfoy.”

Harry approached his next statement with caution. “I didn’t even know you were, well, you know…” he trailed off.

“I’m not, Harry,” Zacharias looked at him earnestly. As far as Harry could tell, he was being completely sincere. “It was a one-time thing. Malfoy he’s… not a good sort. Takes advantage of situations.” He narrowed his eyes in a pointed look.

Harry tried not to panic. Did Zacharias _know_? And, God, would Malfoy actually… Harry didn’t want to think about it just now. Flustered, he changed the subject. Shoptalk should prove safer territory.

“So what’s the latest, from Headquarters? I mean, you only said Kingsley was leaning hard on Goyle, yesterday, so…”

“That’s just the thing, Harry.” Zacharias looked nervous. “Why I wanted to come in person, I mean. Goyle’s, um, he’s, well… dead.”

“What?!” Harry responded incredulously, sitting bolt upright in his chair. “You said yesterday -”

“I know what I said, Harry!” Zacharias returned angrily. “But this morning, after I’d spelled away a nasty fucker of a hangover, Kingsley Floo-called and told me he was dead. Some sort of accident; they don’t know what happened. Of course, Kingsley is fucking _pissed_ and now I’ve got to work the whole weekend, trying to figure out what the fuck happened and do damage control with the media! Be fucking happy you’re here with that wanker instead of at Headquarters dealing with all the shit. This is my bloody lunch break, to boot, God damn it.”

“Zach, I – what can I do?” Harry tried cajolingly. “This is awful. Kingsley didn’t get any information? And what kind of accident?”

“He hung himself,” Zach snorted derisively, “but officially he ‘suffered a fatal heart attack while exercising and we were unable to resuscitate him’. And Kingsley’s got nothing. We’re no closer to figuring this thing out as we were before.” 

Zacharias leaned forward and said in a raised conspiratorial whisper: “Me, I think Goyle offed himself because he knew we were close to figuring things out. Goyle knew something that, whether he told us or not, was going to get him killed. He just saved someone else the trouble.” He threw himself back against the couch cushions and finished in a huff. “Fucking Death Eater scum.”

“Shit.” Harry removed his glasses with his left hand and pinched the bridge of his nose with his right, relaxing back into the cushions himself. “Do we have any other informants who might know something? Someone who ran in Goyle’s circle?” He wracked his brain for ideas. “Certainly there must be someone – in the Identity Reassignment Programme or something – who can point us in the right direction? Cause the sooner we figure this out, the sooner I can return Malfoy to his lush life in London and get the fuck away from him.”

Zacharias chuckled at that. “I hear ya on that one. As far as I know, there’s nobody, but Kingsley said he’d go through his files and see what he could dig up. After I’ve dealt with the media and Goyle’s family, I’m supposed to handle some interviews tomorrow or the next day. We’ll see who with.” Zacharias paused and leaned forward an inch or so.

“Hey, Harry,” his tone turned concerned, “seriously – he been giving you any shit?” He inclined his head in the direction of the back garden.

“Zacharias, please,” Harry sighed. “I’m fine. Malfoy spent the last week not speaking to me, and while we’ve had a few words today about last night, he’s been fine. Same ole git he always was, nothing special.”

Zacharias didn’t look convinced. 

“Okay, Harry,” he conceded, “but just let me know if you want to switch or something. I could deal with… what happened between me and him, if you needed to get away from him. I’d understand.”

“I’ll let you know if anything changes, okay?” Harry assured Zacharias. “And, well, if this goes on too long, I may take you up on it, just so I can come into the office and feel like I’m actually _doing_ something. Glorified babysitting isn’t exactly what I signed up for when I became an Auror.”

“It’s not like I enjoy being babysat, Potter,” came a haughty voice from behind him. Malfoy had returned from the garden. 

“So, is it my turn yet to talk with the _fine_ Mr. Smith, then?” Leaning over the back of the couch, Malfoy dipped his fingers into Zacharias’ hair playfully. Zacharias jerked away, turned and set Malfoy with a cold glare.

“Hands off me, Malfoy,” Zacharias warned. “We’ll talk, but you don’t get to fucking touch me.”

Harry wanted to get out of there, fast, and was up and headed for the back door before Zach finished his sentence. 

“I’m just going to go for a short walk,” he offered awkwardly. “I’ll be back in about thirty minutes, okay?”

Malfoy shrugged and Zacharias nodded his assent. Harry slipped outside wondering briefly if it was a good idea to leave Zacharias in there with his wand while Malfoy was unarmed. 

He’d made it about halfway down the drive when he realized he’d left his coat inside. The morning chill lingered and Harry reckoned as he moved toward the local reservoir it would only get colder. He turned and headed back to the cottage, going back through the kitchen door, so as to disturb Zach and Malfoy as little as possible. As he crept through the kitchen to the hallway where his coat was hanging, he caught a bit of their conversation.

“Enough with the small talk, Smith. What is this about?” Malfoy’s haughty voice floated through the kitchen.

“You know, Malfoy.”

“About your being a closeted homosexual?”

“No,” Zacharias ground out. “About you. And Harry. I saw the way you were looking at him.”

“Ohhhh, so that’s what this is about,” Malfoy chided. “You have an unrequited crush on the Boy Wonder. Of course!”

That much was enough to hold Harry’s attention. He crept back into the kitchen and positioned himself by the door that lead to the living room. Did Zacharias have a crush on him? Was that even possible? Harry believed him when he said he wasn’t gay. And in _what_ way was Malfoy looking at him? He hadn’t noticed a thing… His thoughts were interrupted by Zacharias’ angry response.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Malfoy, what is it with your obsession in making everyone out to be gay? It’s stastistically improbable as well as fucking annoying. I am _not_ gay. So fuck off!”

“You seemed rather inclined towards men when you asked me to fuck you.”

“I did not ask you to fuck me! I was drunk. I didn’t want you to -”

“That’s shite, Smith, and you know it! You were willing and able – I am not a bloody rapist!”

Zacharias snorted. Harry leaned closer so he could hear better. Malfoy continued, enraged.

“You had plenty of chances to say no, Smith. For instance anytime during the ten minutes I was rimming your arse. Or when I had not one, not two but _three_ of my fingers up your arse. But, if I recall, all you could manage was ‘fuck me harder, Malfoy!’, despite your alleged drunken haze.”

Zacharias stuttered a few words in protest, but Malfoy ignored him. 

“So don’t fucking talk to me about saying no. I even offered to _bottom_ and _you_ said no! You said you wanted to feel a cock up your arse!”

Oh, God, Harry was hard. Just hearing those things come out of Malfoy’s mouth… and imagining him doing them to _Zach_ , of all people. It was like his best wank fantasy come true. And rimming. Malfoy had rimmed Zacharias. Harry practically moaned as he imagined Malfoy doing such things to him…

After a brief silence, Harry heard Zacharias speak. “Just ‘cause I did something once doesn’t make me queer. I don’t want to spend the rest of my years snuggling up to some bloke at night, like you.”

“I don’t _snuggle_ , Smith. I also don’t exclusively fuck men. You can fuck men and not be strictly gay, you know. But if you’re so partial to shagging something with tits, then I suggest you go out and find an understanding woman, and have her fuck you up the arse with a strap-on,” he paused for dramatic effect. “Plastic isn’t as good as the genuine article, but I hear there are spells…”

“Fuck you, Malfoy,” Zacharias spat.

“If you like,” Malfoy teased, “but, really, what about this thing you have for Potter?”

“It’s not a _thing_ , Malfoy,” Zacharias said insistently. “I’ve worked with him three years, and, amazingly enough, I like him. I care about him. You know, the way you care about people when you have _friends_.”

‘Of which you have none,’ was left unspoken, but the intent was clear. 

Harry was glad to hear that Zach considered them friends. God help him, but Harry thought he was an all right bloke, too. Nothing but silence came from the living room for a long while, so Harry took a chance and peeked from the edge of the door. Zach and Malfoy were standing now, over by the front window, where neither could see Harry, he hoped, because of the angle.

Zacharias stepped forward, jabbing Malfoy in the chest. “I know the way you operate, and I’ll not have you fucking around with Harry for kicks and then ditching him.”

Harry’s heart thudded in his chest and Zach continued.

“He’s… sensitive about those kinds of things. But he also has a nasty temper, and if you mess him about, it’s me who’ll end up hearing about it every day. So stay the fuck away from him.” Zacharias punctuated each final word with a small step forward and a threatening jab of his finger into Malfoy’s chest.

“Or you’ll what?” Malfoy said, in challenge.

Zacharias moved in another foot, pressing Malfoy flush against the wall, between the door and bay window. 

He leaned close and whispered, just loud enough for Harry to catch: “I’ll make sure whomever it is that’s so keen to see you dead finds out exactly where you are. And then I’ll watch as they kill you.”

Harry’s breath caught in his chest. He considered going in and stopping the two of them before things once again resulted in fisticuffs, but before he could, Zacharias stepped back, and appeared to straighten out his jacket. Malfoy stayed against the wall, breathing heavily, shooting Zach daggers with his eyes.

“Tell Harry I’ll stop by later,” he said with forced civility. “And remember what I said, Malfoy. Don’t you fucking touch him.”

With that Zacharias opened the front door and left. The lack of a pop of Apparation denoted that Zach had come and gone using a Portkey. Not sure if he should go for his walk after all or go in and say something to Malfoy, Harry stayed where he was, waiting for his heartbeat to slow down and his breathing to return to normal.

Malfoy waited a full minute before inching away from the wall and plopping down on the first seat he came to, which happened to be the far end of the couch.

“Well, shit,” he let out coarsely, slouching down a bit.

And then he laughed. Harry didn’t know what could possibly be funny, but Malfoy certainly seemed amused, as he threw his head back against the back of the couch and chuckled to himself. Then Harry’s eyes moved from Malfoy’s head to his hips, and saw that he was palming at his crotch through his trousers. Harry swallowed hard. He could see the line of Malfoy’s cock stretching the fabric of his pressed black trousers. 

Harry wondered idly why Malfoy was wearing such impeccably kept clothing on what amounted to a holiday, though it didn’t really matter – he looked delicious in the designer wear, and the sight of him slowly easing the zipper down over his erection was enough to have Harry hard in his own ill-fitting trousers. Harry pressed up against the door frame, resisting the urge to rut against it desperately. Instead, he watched as Malfoy pulled his turgid prick from the slit in his underwear and pumped his hand up and down it once, twice. He moaned, and Harry had to bite his lip to keep from moaning himself.

Bringing his hand up to his mouth, Malfoy licked the palm with three broad swipes of his tongue before moving it back down to his cock. Now with the added lubrication, his hand moved more easily and Malfoy gave a contented sigh as he found a rhythm. 

Now, was Malfoy thinking about Zacharias or Harry? That’s what Harry was dying to know. Death threats or no, if he’d been pinned against a wall by Zacharias, Harry would be hard and wanking, too. But there were also all those references Zach made to Malfoy _looking_ at him, Harry. Could he…? Harry scarcely allowed himself to even hope. Doing anything with Malfoy was a bad idea. Not only would it be unprofessional, but Harry didn’t think he could just fuck around with Malfoy, like it meant nothing. Though, on the other hand, Harry was 25-years-old and had never had sex (with a man at least, there was, at least, that failed sexual encounter with Ginny), so he was as good as a virgin. And he was sick of it. Perhaps it was time to get rid of his ridiculous notions of love and the ideal sexual partner (ideal pretty much meaning anyone who wouldn’t sell the sensational story to the papers when they were through, and Harry’s trust generally didn’t extend that far) and get it over with.

It wasn’t like it mattered anyway, Harry reckoned, watching Malfoy as he let out a ragged breath, since Malfoy was probably wanking over Zach, thinking about him as he fondled his balls with his left hand and stroked with his right. He was probably thinking all manner of nasty thoughts about –

“Harry!”

What. The. Fuck. Harry did a double take. Did he just hear…

“Oh, Harry, fuck…”

Why yes, yes he did. Malfoy was wanking over _him_ , apparently. It took every bit of self-restraint Harry had (as well as the thought that he’d only ever given one blow job and was quite inexperienced) to keep him from going over to Malfoy, kneeling before him and taking his cock into his mouth. Instead, Harry simply rutted against the door frame, trying to relieve the pressure in his cock and balls. The sight before him was delicious, Malfoy keening against his hand, head thrown back and panting, making his Adam’s apple jump to and fro. His cock, furiously red, straining into his rapidly moving fist.

Harry didn’t get to enjoy the moment long, as Malfoy screwed up his face in exquisite agony and came, his hips jerking erratically as he rode the orgasm out. 

The show was over, but Harry still needed very badly to come. He made a hasty retreat outside, trying his best through his lusty haze to shut the back door quietly. Once outside, he threw himself against the cottage wall, unzipped his trousers hurriedly and took his prick into his hand. It was hot and slick from his pre-come and he jerked his hand up and down roughly, his head lolling on the cottage’s mossy exterior. A minute later he was coming in thick spurts against the cobblestone walkway before him. 

Now Harry was sweaty, sticky and sated, but also rather stuck – he’d have to stay outside at least another ten minutes if he wanted his “going for a walk” story to hold any water. No way did he want Malfoy to suspect he’d listened in on his conversation or seen him wanking. So Harry waited. The still-chilly air slowly dried the sweat on his arms, brow and cock and it finally occurred to Harry that he should at least tuck himself back in. As he did so, one of the cats, the ginger one named Fern, he recalled, moseyed up to him and rubbed idly against his leg. She was clearly hungry. Glancing at the slowly liquefying come on the walkway, Harry hoped off-handedly that cats wouldn’t eat just _anything_.

***

Harry awoke the next morning to a strangled cry and his bedroom door being thrown open by an enraged Malfoy. He marched over to Harry’s bed, waving what appeared to be the day’s _Warlock Telegraph_ in his hands.

“What the hell is this!” Malfoy grabbed the paper from both sides and tugged violently, nearly ripping it in half. Harry reached to the bed stand for his glasses, trying to subtly rearrange his sheets as he did so Malfoy wouldn’t notice his morning hard-on. Glasses on, Harry reared himself up on his elbows and squinted at the front page story.

 _Gregory Goyle Sr. dead; Ministry claims accident!_ the headline screamed as an old picture of Goyle looked shiftily about the frames of the photograph.

“Did you know about this?” Malfoy relinquished his grasp and frantically shook the paper in Harry’s face.

“Malfoy, yes, I’m sorry, I didn’t think -”

“Didn’t think? Didn’t _think_?” Malfoy raged at him. “Do you know what this _means_ , Potter?”

Harry sat up properly and tried to reassure him. “Listen, Malfoy, I know it looks bad, but I promise Zach, Kingsley and I will still be able to protect -”

Malfoy cut him off. “Not that, you idiot! _I’ve been scooped!_ Don’t you get it? The _Telegraph_ scooped me. Me! Draco Malfoy, publishing god. This could seriously effect the _Prophet’s_ position in the market. Oh, God!” On the verge of hyperventilating, Malfoy hastily sat himself on the edge of Harry’s bed, very nearly sitting on Harry’s feet.

Harry could only just make out Malfoy murmuring “breathe” to himself in between taking huge gulps of air and staring at the floor. He leaned forward and ran his hand up and down Malfoy’s back, trying to comfort him.

“It’ll be okay, Malfoy, really,” Harry wracked his brains for something useful to say. “I, um, I’ll give you an exclusive scoop for tomorrow’s edition, or something. You know, insider information?” 

Malfoy turned around at lightening speed, his eyes lighting up. 

“Really!?” he asked excitedly. “Not off the record?”

“No, on the record, definitely,” Harry answered, making it up as he went along. “Though I’ll have to check with Kingsley -”

Harry was cut off by the sudden press of lips against his. Chaste, and fleeting as Malfoy pulled away a moment later, the kiss made Harry’s head spin and his lips tingle, even after Malfoy had pulled away. And his cock, well…

“I owe you one, Potter,” Malfoy said. “But, ugh, brush your teeth, okay? Your breath is _foul_.” Despite the jibe, Malfoy was grinning.

He jumped up suddenly. “I have to call the office!” He made his way to the door. “We’ll talk after. And I expect a very big scoop, Mr. Potter.” 

Malfoy _winked_ at that and Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

Harry heard Malfoy thunder down the stairs a moment later, and only then did he gingerly get out of bed and begin the awkward shuffle to the bathroom, raging hard-on leading the way.

Today, as he partook of his daily shower, he wanked with abandon. He hoped Malfoy heard every moan.

***

“Yes, yes Clarissa, tell the shareholders I've got it under control. Have Benny and Gemma prepare a few sidebars, deep background and the like, and I'll email you the cover story by five.”

Harry moved down the stairs, listening amusedly to Malfoy's telephone conversation. Malfoy stood by the computer, still clad in his pyjamas, telephone balanced between his shoulder and ear as he gestured wildly. 

“And don't forget to have Martin write a scathing editorial about the _Telegraph_ 's heinously callous treatment of the Goyle story. Yes, that was 'heinously callous' – I know it is a good one, isn't it? As I was saying, interview the family, get some whiny quotes about them being gutted, et cetera. Tear 'em a new one. Yes, I know I'm wicked, Clarissa, but that's why you love me. Talk to you later, babe. Ciao!”

He clicked the phone's 'off' button triumphantly and turned to Harry, grinning. “I am brilliant, don't you think? I don't know why I was in such a strop – it's all about spin. And who's the master of spin? I am.” 

“Malfoy, I'm not even sure if Kingsley will...”

“No. Stop,” he directed, placing his index and fore fingers over Harry's mouth. “You promised me a scoop, and you're going to give it to me. I can't bury the _Telegraph_ without said scoop. You see my dilemma?” 

“Um, yes,” Harry mumbled from behind Malfoy's fingers, “but -”

“No buts.” He removed his fingers and started wagging them in Harry's face instead. “You're going to do it. You know why? Because if you do, you know I'll likely snog you again. Hell, if it's a good scoop, I'll give you a bloody blow job. Or, wait, no – rim job. That's what you fancy, isn't it?” He looked at Harry expectantly, almost maniacally. 

Harry stood, speechless. He knew he was gawping, but dear Christ, Malfoy had just offered him sexual favours in exchange for a bloody _story_.

“As I said, I'll ring Kingsley and see -”

“Excellent! But make it snappy – if I'm going to make my 5 p.m. deadline, you'll need to get cracking – I'll have to verify the story, get secondary quotes and then write the damn thing.”

“It's 8 in the morning, Malfoy, I think you have time.”

“No, no – you have to subtract an hour for my soaps, plus breakfast and lunch. Plus I'd like to get a shower in. Your rim job will have to wait until after, is that okay?”

Harry's mouth hung open; more gawping ensued. Was he _serious_ about that?

Malfoy's lips quirked slightly. “You're cute when you're speechless, Potter. But seriously – we'll talk after, okay?” He set Harry with an unreadable look.

Nodding blankly, Harry moved past Malfoy to the phone – he'd have to put in a call to Kingsley, he reckoned. He heard Malfoy breeze past him to the kitchen where the running of water and flip-slap of the kettle top told him he was cooking water for tea.

“Malfoy?” he called after him. “Better make mine a coffee. Strong, please.” The quiet chuckle he heard told him Malfoy would comply.

Harry grasped the computer chair with his left hand and sat down slowly to process the last few minutes. Who would have thought that all these years, all he had to do was hand Malfoy a juicy story to get him into bed? 

***

Kingsley begrudgingly gave Harry clearance to put Goyle's protective custody order on the record, though he stuck to his guns about cause of death. The _Prophet_ , for now, would have to stick with the heart attack line, not that Draco cared, considering the enormity of the scoop.

“The _Telegraph_ is going to wet itself!” Malfoy gushed. “And we're going to absolutely _nail_ them on the 'But isn't death exactly what Death Eaters deserve' editorial once we've revealed that Goyle was a Ministry informant. Brilliant.”

He spent the next three hours playing phone tag with his office before taking a hefty break for lunch and East Enders, as promised. The story was finished and emailed to _The Prophet_ by 4, bringing them to the point Harry had been dreading all day. Time to address The Kiss and The Rim-Job Offer. And possibly The Crush Harry'd Been Nursing For Six Years and His Totally Embarrassing State of Virginity.

Trying to put it off as long as possible, Harry adjourned to the kitchen as soon as Malfoy cried “Done!,” and busied himself preparing a four course meal for the next hour and a half. What he hadn't realised was that sitting down to actually eat said four course meal would allow them plenty of time to talk. The first course (butternut squash soup) went well enough, with Malfoy bragging about how the day's efforts would surely effect the _Telegraph's_ credibility, but as soon as Harry had set down the second (rosemary encrusted duck with a side of herb roasted potatoes and asparagus), Malfoy got right to it.

“So _you're_ gay, then?” he asked, purposely repeating Harry's own words to him from the previous day.

“What makes you think that?” Harry stammered, suddenly becoming quite engrossed by his duck. He maneuvered the skin off with his fork and knife then poked at the breast meat a few times.

“Oh, a lot of things. The gay porn, for starters. And, like I said yesterday, who calls another man a twat? But it was your kissing me back this morning – and your hard-on whilst doing it – that really sold me on it.”

“I, um, well... fuck.”

“It's all right, Potter, apparently I inspire spontaneous homosexuality in a lot of men.”

“What, like Zacharias? Sorry to kill your ego, but I was gay long before you showed up.”

More like he realised he was gay right around the time he showed up six years earlier, but he wasn't about to admit that.

“That's good to know. Wouldn't want to feel wholly responsible for corrupting The Boy Who Lived. The papers – including mine – would have a field day. Actually...” Harry could practically see the wheels turning. “That's not a bad idea. I could give my papers an exclusive and...” he trailed off and gave a hasty smile. “But that's for another day. So you really never shagged Smith? Really?”

“He's straight, Malfoy.”

“You believe that?” His look said 'are you mad or just stupid?'

“Yes, I do. Plenty of straight men are curious about anal sex.” Unfortunately, Harry's throat chose that moment to send the swig of wine he took down the wrong way, and his sudden hacking didn't help his position any.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” he croaked, coughing another three times before continuing. “I looked it up on the internet. It is perfectly normal for straight men to be interested in anal play.”

“Yes. And some of them realize, upon engaging in said anal play that what they really want is a hard cock. Isn't that right, Potter?”

“I never said I was one of those straight men. I'm not denying that I prefer the same sex.”

“Really? Sounded like you were denying it until about two minutes ago. I've been trying to get you to admit it for _years_.”

“Years?” Harry asked, a quirked brow communicating his skepticism. 

“Don't tell me you haven't read my 'Out on the Town' column, cause if you say you haven't, you'd be lying,” Malfoy retorted. “Everyone reads it.” He preened. 

“I don't think referring to 'Harry Potter, once again, being horribly and desperately alone' every other week counts as trying to get me out of the closet.”

“Ha! You do read it.” His eyes gleamed triumphant. “And you obviously don't know how to read between the lines. Thought I was saying that, plain as day.”

“Obviously not,” Harry shot back. “Most people – especially women, I might add - just think I'm emotionally damaged, if the letters are anything to go by.”

“Dear God, you get _fan mail_?”

“By the truck full,” Harry exaggerated, taking a now compulsive swallow of wine. If he was going to suffer this conversation, might as well do it drunk. He continued, swirling the wine in his glass for emphasis. “It seems women of all ages want to 'offer their uterus for the bearing of my children' and/or 'mend my dark, broken heart.' And that doesn't cover the pornographic ones. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil read most of them, and forward the pervy ones to Seamus for his entertainment.”

“Wow,” said Malfoy, seeming genuinely amused. “I would _love_ to print some of those in the _Wizarding Herald_...”

Harry's return was emphatic, if a little slurred. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on! I'm also thinking of launching a lads' mag, and those letters of a more sexual nature would be a right help.”

“No.”

Malfoy pouted, which Harry thought made him look like a kewpie doll. “You're no fun. So it's all ladies, then? No men sending you love letters?”

“We forward those to Fred and George.”

“The Weasley twins?!”

Harry took another swig of wine and recited, “Their love knows not the legal and moral boundaries of being related.” He capped off the statement by raising his glass in toast. Malfoy left his glass on the table and simply stared at him, aghast.

“ _Really?_ ”

“Yep. But, err, that's off the record.” Harry blushed furiously, realising his slip-up. Fred and George would kill him. “Oh, damn it!”

“Don't worry, Potter. I won't tell, for a price.” That grin could not mean good things.

Harry asked warily, “What kind of price?” 

Malfoy licked his lips, apparently engrossed in thought. “I want a snog. A right, proper snog. With groping.”

“That's ridiculous,” Harry stammered. Malfoy scooted his chair closer.

“Why is it ridiculous? Don't you want to?”

He was now less than a foot away, leaning closer by the second. Balancing with one hand on the back of Harry's chair, the other positioned on Harry's lower thigh, Malfoy leaned in and licked at the corner of Harry's mouth. He then nuzzled Harry's cheek with his nose and urged Harry to turn his head. The ever-creeping-upwards hand on his thigh won him over, and he turned his head the fraction of an inch it took to meet Malfoy; their lips slid over each other and someone moaned, Harry couldn't say who.

Harry could taste the herb-infused oil from the potatoes but beyond that, as he worked his tongue into Malfoy's mouth, he could just make out the distinctly earthy and mint-tinged flavour that was simply Malfoy (or his toothpaste). Every logical part of his brain screamed that this was wrong, an exquisitely bad idea, but his tingling lips, pounding heart and throbbing prick told him that he should carry on like this for as long as possible. Malfoy's hand massaging at his prick through his trousers was equally encouraging.

“Mmmmnnn, Potter,” Malfoy pulled back and licked his way from Harry's mouth up to his ear. Tonguing at the shell, he murmured, “Wanna fuck you.”

A surge of panic went through him and Harry jerked his chair back. His brain screamed 'danger, danger!' though his cock jerked happily at the thought. 

“What? No! We can't. It would be unprofessional.” It was the first excuse he could manage, though a valid one at that.

“Everything about this is unprofessional, I would think,” Malfoy scooted his chair forward and laid his hand on Harry's knee. “What difference will a bit of shagging on the side do?”

“I could be fired,” Harry reasoned, as much with Malfoy as with himself.

“What, you're going to announce to your boss that you shagged your informant? Don't be daft.”

“I'd know that I'd done it, that it was wrong. That would be enough.”

“Why is it so wrong, then?”

“Conflict of interest. I'd be too emotionally involved in the case,” Harry recited, recalling the lectures from Auror training.

“Come on, you don't even like your job. And who said anything about emotional involvement? I'm just talking about a shag.”

Harry felt as if he'd been kicked. 

“Just... no.” He knew he was pouting, and that his disappointment must be obvious to Malfoy.

And there was Malfoy, studying him in his disappointment. “You _want_ emotional involvement, don't you?” He started slowly. “Why?”

“You wouldn't understand.”

“No, I understand why you, Harry Potter, whingy, abandoned little orphan and saviour of the Wizarding world wants to feel loved, but why the hell are you looking to me for it?”

Harry's stomach dropped. Why, _why_ was he letting this affect him?

“Fuck off,” he hissed, jerking his knee from Malfoy's grasp.

“No, really, Potter, I want to know. Smith mentioned... but I didn't honestly believe... thought he was just jealous.”

“I have _not_ been looking at you.”

“Okay, whatever you say, Potter – wait, how do you know what he said? Were you listening?” He jumped up from his chair and started pacing in front of the table.

Harry felt his face flush. “No, of course not!”

“You're lying. Potter, you are so easy to read. And you're seriously an Auror?” he spat before turning a particular shade of green. “Jesus fuck – how much did you hear? Oh, God...” Malfoy fled from the kitchen, moving into the living room. Anger burned in Harry's stomach, for Malfoy's teasing, for his easy dismissal of Harry's feelings and now for his sudden vulnerability, when he'd had no care for Harry's a moment before. Getting up from the table and following Malfoy, he decided to torture him a little.

“Don't you mean how much did I _see_?” He waited a beat. “Try everything. Including your pathetic little wanking session.”

“Fuck.” Malfoy collapsed back onto the sofa.

“Not so great when you're the one being scrutinised, is it?” Harry seethed. “So, mister 'I'm not gay, but I'm not bisexual, either, don't label me, plebe' – do you always fantasise about me when you wank off?”

Malfoy went from green to puce. 

“You wish,” he bit back weakly.

“Maybe I do,” Harry said, the wine having made him a little bit loopy and far too honest. “But it's not like you fucking care.”

Harry left Malfoy sulking in the living room and went upstairs to mope in his bedroom. After trying to read for an hour in which he instead had half a dozen dramatic, obstinate, needy, begging, angry, border-line weepy and one love-confession-laced imaginary conversations with Malfoy, he decided to just go to bed. No point in staying up if he would only be tempted to go downstairs and either punch or throw himself at Malfoy. Either one would be very unprofessional and generally a bad idea.

***

Harry was cold. And there was something buzzing in his ear. He sluggishly batted at the noise, trying to dispel whatever insect was hissing at him. Then it said his name.

“Potter!” Then another hoarse, very human whisper, a little louder this time: “Potter!”

“Nnnngh,” Harry muttered.

“Budge over, Potter!”

“Nnnngh!”

“Fuck 'no,' the heat's cut out, you prat. Budge the fuck over.”

Things came into focus and Harry reared himself up on his elbows. Malfoy was standing over him, hopping back and forth, rubbing his hands along his sides for warmth.

“The heat, what?” Harry asked, rubbing his eyes and reaching for his glasses.

“It's cut out. And I can't use my bloody wand and I'm _freezing_ , so I need you for body warmth. So put your bloody glasses down and move over.”

Harry blinked at him. “It's a twin bed, Malfoy.”

“I don't care. I saw a documentary on the tellyfision. In the event of an emergency, Muggles huddle together for body warmth. I need body heat.”

“You're not going to die from lack of heat in the middle of March. Go to your own damn bed, Malfoy. I don't want to talk to you right now.”

“We don't have to talk.” 

Harry felt his covers be wrested back and suddenly Malfoy's body was next to his, shoving him over with all his might.

“Your feet are fucking cold!”

“Of course they are, you prat! I'm getting hypothermia!”

“You are not getting hypothermia, Malfoy.”

“Turn on your side.”

“What?”

“Turn on your side. So we'll both fit.”

“You want to spoon with me?”

“For the sake of our survival, Potter!”

“You've got to be kidding me.”

“Didn't they teach you anything in Auror school?

“Yes. They taught me how to avoid the mentally ill, like you.”

“Mmmmnn, you're warm.” Malfoy snuggled against his back, nuzzling the back of his neck and resting his cheek against his shoulder. 

After a moment: “Malfoy, are you hard?”

“Strictly a physical reaction, Potter. Ignore it.”

“How am a supposed to ignore _that_?” 

“...”

Harry shifted awkwardly, but only managed to allow Malfoy's prick to nestle more tightly between his upper thighs and buttocks.

“Mmmnnnn,” Malfoy moaned, rutting against him softly. “Still owe you a rim job, y'know. Wanna lick your arse, Potter. Mmmmnn, yeah.”

“God!” Harry said, exasperated, as he turned over to face Malfoy, solving the awkward erection issue. Kind of. “All you think about is sex!”

Even in the darkness, without his glasses, Harry could see Malfoy's grimace. 

“It's not – I... I'm sorry. I'm just kind of used to it. Defense mechanism or something. I didn't mean to upset you. I really would like to, you know. Sometime.” He looked like a kicked puppy dog.

“Let me guess, you've gone a week without a shag and you're gagging for it,” Harry said acidly.

“Ha! I've gone far longer than a week without a shag, silly.” He flicked the end of Harry's nose with his index finger. “This isn't because I'm desperate. Believe it or not, I've come to find you... quite attractive, in your own, bumbling Auror kind of way.”

He paused a moment. “You really are hot when you're angry. Your jaw tenses and your eyes get all intense. It's really, really hot. Hot.” He over-annunciated the 't'.

“Malfoy... are you drunk?”

“Mmmmnn, maybe. But you're still hot. Hot, hot, hot. Come here -” He reached for Harry and pulled him closer, so they lay chest-to-chest, legs entwined, half-hard cocks nestled against each other. “That's better. Don't want to die of hypothermia.”

“You're not going to die, you stupid prat.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, I promise.”

“Good.” Malfoy cuddled up against him, his hard-on and hypothermia apparently forgotten. Within moments he was sound asleep and snoring lightly against Harry's shoulder. Confused, but also warm and more than a bit horny, Harry closed his eyes and tried his best to sleep again.

***

When Harry woke up, he found that he'd rolled over in his sleep. Malfoy was, once again, spooned up against him with his half-hard prick against Harry's back. Morning wood being, well, morning wood, Harry found his own cock hard again and he reached for it tentatively, so as not to wake Malfoy. Shuddering and stifling a moan as his fingers grazed his erection through the thin material of his boxer shorts, Harry gingerly worked his cock through the slit in his shorts. He wondered idly if his erection had even gone down since last night; it at least felt that persistent.

Harry drew his fingers into his mouth and sucked on the digits, coating them in a thick layer of saliva before bringing them back down to this prick. He closed his eyes and lost himself to the sensation of slick fingers working themselves over the engorged flesh. It was only when he felt another hand join his that he realised Malfoy was awake. Trying to pull away, a steadying hand on the small of his back, followed by an insistent hardness rubbing along his crack stopped him. He felt lips moving along the back of his neck as Malfoy swatted Harry's own hand away and curled his slick fist (when had Malfoy licked his palm?) around his cock. Harry's hips involuntarily jerked forward, which both drove his prick further into Malfoy's encircling fist and created a delicious friction with Malfoy's cock as they snapped back.

“Oh, fuck,” Malfoy moaned against his neck, thrusting against Harry in time with his jerking hand.

Grabbing the edge of the bed for leverage so he could work his hips back and forth more forcefully, Harry rutted against Malfoy with abandon, biting his lip so as not to say anything that would embarrass him later. Malfoy, however, apparently lacked self-censorship.

“Been wanting to feel your hard cock for so long, Potter,” Malfoy moaned. “Knew it would be big and, fuck, so hot. Ah, fuck!” 

Malfoy bit down on his shoulder and Harry felt something warm and slick run down his back. As his post-orgasmic haze subsided, Malfoy doubled the pace of his hand, adding a sharp twisting motion on each upstroke. Just a few strokes were enough to push Harry over the edge and he spilled himself over Malfoy's fist, gritting his teeth to stifle his moans.

They lay panting a few moments, a tangled mess of sweaty limbs, until Harry felt the soft pressure of Malfoy's lips against his shoulder blade.

“What are you doing, Malfoy?” His question bore an edge of trepidation, but he didn't move away.

The answer, when it came, was equally guarded. “Just enjoying the moment.”

Softly: “Oh.”

Malfoy moved his hand up from Harry's spent cock and wrapped it around his chest, tentatively drawing him closer. He pressed another light kiss to Harry's neck and Harry responded by scooting back a bit, just enough to signal his resignation. This was dangerous and foreign, but it also felt good, and for the first time in years Harry thought that maybe that was enough.

***

He awoke again hours later, shivering despite the warmth of the other body against his back.

“The heat really did cut out, didn't it?” he asked Malfoy, who stretched lazily behind him.

“Of course it did,” he murmured sleepily. “Think I'd make that up just to get in your bed?”

“Yes.”

“Really? You think I'm some desperate sexual deviant, then?” 

Harry flipped himself over so he could watch Malfoy's reaction as he teased him. 

“Let's see, you shagged my ex-girlfriend _and_ my partner, would probably shag my boss if given the opportunity and, from what I've heard, have also shagged the majority of the London Wizarding press corps. So, yes, I think you're a desperate sexual deviant who would do anything for a shag,” Harry said, almost making it through the whole thing with a straight-face.

“I haven't shagged the _whole_ press corps.” Malfoy pouted. “Just the hot ones. And I, err, didn't actually shag your ex-girlfriend. I just said that to get a rise out of you.”

“So she didn't tell you that I was a complete failure in the bedroom and probably fancied blokes?” Harry said with a grin.

“No, she did,” Malfoy said without a hint of humour, and Harry's grin transformed into a scowl as Malfoy went on, “but we didn't shag. Honestly, I'm not all that interested in women, myself.”

“What? What about your shagging whomever you please and all that shite?” Harry knew he was behaving like a jerk, but Malfoy's “bi-sexual god of the universe” act was wearing thin, especially in light of this new information.

“I do shag whomever I please,” he tutted, haughty expression on his face. “They're just usually men. Besides, I find most gay men try twice as hard to win my affections when they think I swing both ways. The sex tends to focus on convincing me to switch, and I'm all too obliged to enjoy their ministrations.”

Finding it difficult to remain cross with Malfoy when he was so glib (and naked), Harry said, voice laced with awe and amusement, “You're... you're just shameless, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy's returning grin was cock-sure, verging on a leer. “I know. And, for the record, Weasley doesn't know what the fuck she's talking about. That was just a hand job and bit of frottage and you're already one of the best shags I've had all year.”

“Really?” Harry tried to contain his glee... and figure out what the hell frottage was. 

After a moment: “The last calendar year or since January?”

“Does it matter?” 

“Yes.” Suddenly Harry felt needy, on top of being genuinely curious. “It's the difference between twelve months and two and a half.”

“The last three hundred and sixty-five days of the year,” Malfoy clarified, licking a broad swipe from Harry's left nipple to his collarbone. “In which, I'd like to point out, I only had sex with three, maybe four people. So I'm not the slut you seem to think I am.”

“That is a little slutty,” Harry chided, knowing he'd get a rise out of him.

“It is not!”

“Well, relatively speaking...”

“Compared to what? A monk?” Malfoy asked, incredulous.

Risking the self-exposure, Harry ventured, “Compared to me,” in a low voice. He braced himself for a snide comment or laughter. All he got was a wary curiosity. 

“How many blokes have you shagged, then? One? None?”

At Harry's expression at the latter, Malfoy's eyes bulged, his mouth dropped open.

“None? You haven't had sex with anyone all year? You? But you're the Boy Who Lived! Saviour of the Wizarding World! Witch Weekly's Hottest Bachelor! You're fucking hot!”

Next thing you knew, he'd be getting fan mail from Malfoy.

“Thank you, but I'd like to be appreciated for more than just my inadvertent heroics and my apparent hotness.”

Malfoy studied him. “When _is_ the last time you had sex?”

Harry bit his lip nervously. “Um, never?”

“You're a virgin?!”

“Maybe?” he said.

“Potter, you cannot be a virgin.” The statement, disbelieving instead of mocking, set Harry at ease somewhat. Malfoy continued.

“I mean, how is that even possible? I'd shag you six ways to Sunday if you asked, and I'm sure I'm not the only one...”

Blushing at the insinuation, Harry stammered. “Well, it's not like I've never done anything with a bloke. I've just not had full-on sex. No big deal.” He laughed nervously.

“What have you done with other men, exactly?”

“Um, well, a few hand jobs. I've received two or three blow jobs, given just one, though. And, um, that's kind of it.”

“Really?” Malfoy still appeared gob-smacked. “None of those blokes wanted to, you know, push you over a table and shag you rotten?”

“A few wanted to, but I wasn't going to, well, you know. I barely knew them.” 

“'Fuck,' Potter. They wanted to fuck you. You can say it. And where, exactly, did you meet these blokes?”

“Oh, just some Muggle gay clubs in London. Isn't that what you did? Go to gay clubs and the like?”

“Certainly not,” Malfoy tutted. “You never know who's circulating in those places. But you can always find other gay Wizards if you know where to look.”

What, was there like a secret gay wizard society? Harry wondered to himself.

“Really? Where, then?” He asked wryly.

There was a wicked gleam in Malfoy's eye. “Well, secluded boarding schools, for one.” Harry made a conscious effort to keep his jaw from dropping open. 

“You messed around with blokes at _Hogwarts_?”

“Of course. You didn't?”

“No!” he said a little too forcefully, then back-peddled. “ I mean, I was kind of still focused on girls.”

“And see how well that turned out for you.” The sarcasm in his statement annoyed Harry, despite its truth.

“Sorry, not all of us realise our desire for cock at as young an age as you must have,” Harry retorted.

“Well, enough did to make fifth and sixth year _very_ interesting.” Malfoy waggled his eyebrows at the emphasis.

“Great. So you were planning a Death Eater attack and sucking cock in the Astronomy Tower. If only I'd known...”

Though Harry was being facetious, Malfoy's expression turned cold. “You had to bring that up.”

“What?” Harry said, confused. “It's true.”

“You know I was trying to protect my family.”

“Yes, I do,” Harry ground out, now on edge, “but you still let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. You betrayed Dumbledore's trust.”

“He seemed willing enough to forgive me.”

“And so am I.” Then, more softly: “I have.”

“You've forgiven me or you just tolerate the idea that you should forgive me?”

“If there were still an issue, Malfoy, I wouldn't be in bed with you. I wouldn't have vouched for you during the Ministry investigation.” 

Malfoy's expression softened. “Yeah, um, thanks for that,” he grumbled.

“You're welcome,” said Harry, urging Malfoy to believe his sincerity both through his tone and the earnest look he gave him. “You know, I'm not as short-sighted as you would think.”

Malfoy snorted. “More like people – i.e. Snape and Lupin - beat the idea into you until you actually fucking took a minute to listen.”

Harry frowned. “It wasn't like that.”

“It took a _year_.”

“I was 17 and you'd just caused the death of my mentor!”

“You were stubborn. You still are.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You're twenty-five and a virgin. You've had me in your bed for that last eight hours and are _still_ a virgin. Stubborn.” Malfoy's tone had shifted back to a casual, teasing one. Harry wondered idly if he was bi-polar.

“I... I just don't want to rush things.”

“Or you're scared. Give me ten minutes with just my tongue and your arse and that'll change.” 

“You're very hung up on that, you know. Rimming.”

“What can I say, you put the idea in my head.”

His quirked lip and hooded, bedroom eyes insinuated exactly what he wanted to do with Harry. Worrying the inside of his mouth with his incisors, Harry considered his options. God, he wanted to. He really did, but there were also the professional implications to consider. Sleeping with a mark was off-limits, a fireable offense. Then again, Malfoy was right – Harry didn't even _like_ being an Auror that much, so far as the politics were concerned; if he were fired tomorrow, he would be okay. Besides which, they'd already crossed the line of unprofessional conduct, so what would it hurt to go a little further?

“Later,” he answered, his voice firm. “After we fix the heat.”

***

It turned out the pilot light had simply gone out, and if it weren't for the fact that Harry didn't think Malfoy knew enough about Muggle contraptions to figure out how the heater worked, he would have thought he'd blown it out himself. As, in hindsight, the entire midnight anti-hypothermia exercise seemed a rather convenient excuse to get into Harry's pants.

Nonetheless, once he'd re-lit the heater, he treated himself to a nice long shower, which featured both his standard wank and an exhaustive... rear entry cleansing exercise. There was no way in hell he was going to let Malfoy's tongue near his arse unless he'd thoroughly cleaned himself beforehand. 

But now that they had established that they would, in fact, be having sex that afternoon, Harry was lost as to exactly how he should approach things. Did he just waltz downstairs naked, bend over the couch (or table – Malfoy seemed to like the idea of sex on tables and desks) and say 'come and get me,' or did he dress up and cook lunch so they could dance circles round each other for another few hours? In the end, he settled for a white undershirt and his nicest pair of boxer shorts, and went downstairs to find his quarry. 

He found him lounging on the couch watching Neighbours, shouting at one of the characters on screen about being a “feckless Australian hussy.” 

“Hey Malfoy,” Harry said, moving across the foyer to the sofa.

“Hey!” Malfoy's annoyance with the telly melted away and was replaced by a nervousness Harry didn't think he'd ever seen.

Perching anxiously on the edge of a cushion, Harry said, “So, do you want to...”

“Yeah, if you want to. Just, um, the programme's nearly over. Should be just another minute.”

“Oh, okay. I'll just, sit here, then.”

“Right.” Malfoy looked him up and down. “You didn't put on much, did you?”

Unlike Harry, Malfoy had put on his normal finery after his shower – pressed black trousers, cashmere sweater, Gucci shoes. Harry simply shrugged. Glancing down at Harry's waist – and the slit in his boxer shorts – Malfoy clicked off the television and said, lips quirked.

“Forget about that. I want you now.”

Much to Harry's delight and amazement, he stood and started stripping off right then. Jumping up, Harry moved to hastily shut the curtains, as having sex in broad daylight, no matter how secluded their cottage, didn't seem like the kind of thing one did in full view of the window.

“You know,” Malfoy said as he stepped out of his trousers then set to work on folding them neatly, “I thought I'd have to work much harder than this. Seduce you again.”

Moving back to the couch, Harry resolved, “Once I've made up my mind, I've, well, there you have it.”

“Hmmm,” Malfoy hummed. “Come here.”

Harry obliged, stepping closer until they were mere inches apart. He braced himself for a kiss, but instead felt hands grasp at his undershirt and wrest it over his head. Once it had been tossed aside, lips were latching themselves to his nipples and alternating between licking and sucking. The shock of sensation sent him up on his toes, but he relaxed back down as Malfoy moved down his chest, briefly dipping his tongue into his belly button, before pausing at the waist band of his boxer shorts.

“You don't mind if I get right to it, right?”

Words failed him, so he just nodded dumbly. The shorts were over his hips and tossed aside instantly.

Malfoy grinned mischievously, grabbed hold of Harry's hips and spun him around. Before Harry could question or protest, warm hands had pried apart his arse cheeks and a warm, wet tongue was licking a broad swipe from his perineum to his tail bone. Shuddering, Harry's knees buckled and he fell forward, grasping for purchase on the edge of the couch. Malfoy grinned against his arse before swirling his tongue around the pucker clockwise, then counter-clockwise. 

Shoving back against Malfoy's face, Harry's guttural moan turn to a frustrated grunt as Malfoy moved away from his hole down to his balls, which he took into his mouth in turn, kneading the sacs with his tongue, grazing them lightly with his teeth. 

But then he returned his attention to Harry's hole, laving at it, swirling in ever smaller circles before he stabbed at it with the tip of his tongue, barely breaching the tense muscle. It was everything Harry had read and seen on the internet and more, better. Hearing the slurping noises Malfoy was making, feeling his nose lodged against the top of his crack, his tongue stabbing into his hole rhythmically. It was bizarre and intimate and dirty and just fan-fucking-tastic.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry moaned. 

Suddenly, the pressure stopped and all he could feel was hot breath ghosting across his arse. Twisting his upper body around, Harry tried to see what was going on. As best he could make out, Malfoy was back there, holding him open, simply _looking_ at him. Heart-beat quickening, Harry began to fidget, uncomfortable at being so exposed, at being studied like this. 

“Malfoy, what are you doing?” he whined.

“Hmmm, nothing.” 

Malfoy waited a beat before plunging in again, now tongue-fucking his opening with abandon. Relaxing again, Harry rutted against Malfoy's mouth and clawed at the sofa cushions he was grasping, white-knuckled.

Then, something occurred to him.

“Wait... oh, oh fucking hell, wait... why... aren't... fuck, aren't you going to do it?” 

He whipped around again and looked at beseechingly at Malfoy (or at least what he could see of him, which was more or less limited to four curling fingers of his right hand on his hip and the crown of his head).

“Moron, I AM doing it,” came the slightly muffled reply, followed by an enthusiastic suck against his hole. 

“No... no, I mean... aren't you, you know...” he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Going to slap it?”

Harry felt some vibrations that he was pretty sure had nothing to do with rimming, and when he looked back, saw that Malfoy had his face pressed to his backside and was shaking with laughter.

“Yes, I am,” Malfoy finally managed. “Right after I say, oh baby, oh baby, what a tight sweet virgin arse you have, who's your daddy, give it to me like you know you want to.” This was said in a wavering monotone as Malfoy clearly tried not to laugh more. 

“That's not funny,” Harry ground out.

“But it really, really is. You've been watching too much porn, Potter.”

“So there's, um, no slapping with rimming?”

“Generally arse-slappage is not standard for rimming, or sex in general, no. That shite you've been watching is grossly inaccurate. But, it's no matter,” he slapped Harry's arse jokingly. “We're going to rectify your little sexual situation. Right now, actually. What do you say we go upstairs?”

Harry swallowed nervously and thought, in hindsight, that he perhaps should have gotten pissed before they attempted this.

Taking a deep breath, he let it out in one big whoosh and answered, “Sure.”

***

“Are you okay with bottoming?”

“Sorry?”

They were in the master bedroom now, Harry lying on his side on the bed, Malfoy finally naked.

“Are you okay with bottoming?” Malfoy repeated as he stood before Harry, prick in one hand, a condom in the other.

“Um, uh, I, uh...”

“Look,” Malfoy huffed, his dick bouncing comically as he shifted on the balls of his feet. “Either you're okay with me fucking you or you're not. I don't mind being the fuckee, but honestly, seeing as I'm hard as fuck and you've already been rimmed open, it would be more... economic if I were on top.”

Receiving nothing but a skeptically furrowed brow in reply, he tried again. “It won't hurt, I promise. There's plenty of lube, despite your frequent masturbation sessions.” Harry opened his mouth to snipe, eliciting a smirk from Malfoy. “There you are. Just... trust me, okay? I'm trusting you with my life; you're only trusting me with your virginity. So who's taking the bigger leap here?”

“I don't think it's fair to compare the two,” said Harry as he contemplated his options. He didn't particularly fancy spending the time to prepare Malfoy and he _was_ already pretty wound up... “I guess,” he finally managed, his arsehole tightening reflexively and thinking that, really, there were two virginities for him to lose, so he might as well get the being fucked element over with now. He would do the fucking next time.

“Good,” said Malfoy, tearing open and unrolling the condom onto his erection.

“Malfoy, why do you have a condom?”

“I found them, in a drawer in here. Apparently whomever set this place up was a randy bugger.” He looked very approving of this.

“And you're going to use it?”

“Yes, Potter, I have read a sex manual or two, you know. And slept with enough Muggles to know that they're a good idea, in lieu of magic.”

Condom now on, Malfoy approached the bed. 

“Now, you can bottom on top, if that's easier for you. Control the pace and everything.”

“I thought you said you would top...”

“It's just an expression – the top penetrates the bottom. I'd still be penetrating you, just with you sitting on top of me. I know some people find that position easiest for their first time.”

“I know that the fucking top penetrates the bottom, prat. I have watched porn before.”

“A little too much, remember? Anyhow, it's not my fault you look like a deer caught in headlights. How am I to know what the fuck you get and what you don't?”

Malfoy flounced onto the bed and pumped a hand over his cock a few times. 

“Now get,” he barked, pointing to his side. “Straddle me backwards, so I can lube you up more.”

Harry complied, crawling across the bed and straddling him, leaning down to hug Malfoy's legs so his arse would be better exposed. Malfoy's prick slapped against his arse and Harry felt his breath hitch behind him. A moment later, two oil-slick fingers brushed against his hole, circling around the pucker before pushing in slowly. Harry sucked in a breath and held it as the fingers gently probed his arse. While Malfoy's rimming had loosened him considerably, it still twinged having two fingers inside of him and he struggled not to cry out. Once there were three, though, he relented, letting out a shout of pain at the initial penetration.

“Shhh, relax,” Malfoy cooed. “Don't hold your breath – just breathe slowly and try to relax your muscles.” The words sounded strange coming in that tone from those lips. 

Nevertheless, Harry took his advice and tried his best to let out his shaky breaths, to unclench his tight muscles. It made things slightly better, but by no means pleasureable. His heart dropped in his chest when, a moment later, Malfoy removed his probing digits and told him to turn around. Doubt loomed in his mind and he considered begging off this task, but then he tried to remind himself that this shouldn't be a task, something he had to do, but something he wanted to do. And he did, in theory, but the thought of having more than fingers inside of him frightened him, loathe as he was to admit or let it show on his face.

Yet something must have shown, as Malfoy lightly ran his fingers over Harry's hip in what was clearly meant to be a comforting gesture.

“It's okay,” he urged gently.

“I fucking know it's okay,” Harry snapped, whipping his head round to glare at Malfoy. He then unceremoniously heaved himself up and around, until he was straddling his hips front-ways, Malfoy's cock nestled against the curve of his arse. Rising up on his knees, Harry reached behind him and grasped Malfoy's cock, holding it steady as he clumsily tried to hold open his arse cheeks with the other hand.

“Here,” Malfoy offered, taking hold of his prick so Harry could more easily lower himself down.

The initial moment of penetration hurt, as the head of Malfoy's cock pushed against the rim of his arsehole. Tears sprung to his eyes and, frowning in concentration, Harry braced an arm against the bed to give himself the proper leverage. Then, once he felt the pop of pressure and Malfoy's prick was an inch or so inside him, the pricks of pain subsided into a dull burn.

He stilled, his thighs beginning to twitch as he held himself above Malfoy for a minute, maybe two. As his ragged breaths evened out somewhat, Harry began the slow slide down onto Malfoy's cock until, only because he feared his legs would give out if he didn't, he sat himself upon him fully. Another minute's rest and it was only Malfoy's strangled and desperate “Christ Potter, fucking _move_ ” that made him lift himself up a few inches and slide back down, trying it a few times with slow, shallow movements, before he began heaving himself up nearly all the way off Malfoy's cock before pushing back down with a grunt. 

“Ah, bloody fuck, this is good,” he moaned, right hand resting on Malfoy's hip bone left working at his own nipple. It was like riding one of those toy ponies he'd played with as a kid, and he bounced up and down languidly.

“Knew you'd be tight and – ah, fuck! - annoyingly talented at this,” Malfoy said, tossing his head back into the pillow, pleasure etched on his face. “Like you are at everything,” he muttered a minute later, almost as an afterthought, but loud enough for Harry to hear.

Smirking, he leaned forward, one hand on the mattress beside Malfoy's arm, the other resting absently on his chest, and as the angle shifted he felt a swell of pleasure on the downstroke. Another jerk up and down and Harry was sure he'd found the famed prostate, which he had tried so many times to find with his finger, but found that one, always just tentatively pressed not quite an inch inside him, never did the trick. But now that he'd found the right angle and just the right swirling motion of his hips that would spark it on every few strokes or so, he settled into a rhythm, gyrating shallowly on top of Malfoy's prick, allowing his head to droop down and just touch his shoulder. He was sure he was drooling, but he didn't care. Malfoy kissed his exposed shoulder, an echo of earlier that morning, and took hold of Harry's hips with his hands, enabling himself to angle his hips up sharper, faster with the additional anchor.

Harry knew he wouldn't last long like this, especially not with his prick now rubbing against the tight planes of Malfoy's stomach. Control of the situation, however, was wrested away from him as Malfoy cried out in a string of expletives and his hips stilled as he came in several short bursts inside Harry. Concluding off-hand that it was probably the weirdest sensation he'd ever felt, Harry arched up and awkwardly grabbed his own cock, riding the last vestiges of Malfoy's hard-on as he brought himself off, coming in thick spurts that coated both their chests. He then collapsed bonelessly onto Malfoy, panting into the crook of his neck, wisping half-heartedly at the sweaty strands of hair that got in his eyes, in his mouth.

“Nnnguh, Potter, you're heavy. Get off.”

“Hmmpf,” Harry grunted in return and heaved himself over to the side. 

“Thanks,” Malfoy murmured. “Sleep now.”

Silly as Harry found it to go to sleep after they'd have a marathon lie-in that morning, he was exhausted and all too happy to nod off, his head still pillowed against Malfoy's shoulder.

***

It was dark when Harry woke up. He lay a minute, groggy and confused, snuggling further into the warmth of the body beside him and rubbing at his eyes with a single hand. Was it night time? What day was it...

He sat bolt upright as the curtain of sleep left him and he looked around the room, wide awake and more than aware of how he'd come to be here. He'd had sex with Malfoy. He'd _lost his virginity_ to Malfoy. He shivered in the cool of the bedroom.

It had to be at least seven o'clock, judging from the blackness of the room, but Harry wasn't sure how long they'd slept. Moving gingerly from the bed, both so as not to wake Malfoy and also because his sore muscles and arse protested every minutiae of movement, Harry searched for and found his discarded watch on the dresser. Squinting in the dim light, he could just read the time – 7:45 p.m. Glancing back at the still-sleeping Malfoy, Harry hastily moved from the room and went to his own, dressing quickly and packing a small bag. He had to get out of here.

What had he been thinking? Sleeping with Malfoy was not only unprofessional, but _stupid_ \- he'd heard what Zach said, he'd be nothing but a hit-and-run night of shagging or, at the most, several days worth of shagging, considering they were stuck in this cottage. But even that notion was ridiculous. How could he have been such an idiot, not even thinking about _the morning after_. Whether Malfoy loved him and left him or shagged him until the case was solved, it left Harry at a professional impasse. He was no longer objective enough to protect him. So he had to leave.

Thinking back on what Zach had said about switching shifts, Harry dialled his mobile intending to ask him if he was still willing. When all he got was the answer phone, Harry left a quick message saying he was desperate to get out of here, and could Zach _please_ ring him back as soon as he got it. 

Harry sat in the living room, waiting impatiently for Zach to ring back, all the while keeping his ears alert, listening for sounds of Malfoy stirring. He didn't want to be here when he woke up, that was for sure. When Zach still hadn't rung back twenty minutes later, Harry decided he should just go – maybe Zach was working late at the Ministry, where they didn't get reception. Gathering his things, Harry walked out into the chilly night, sparing just one glance back at Malfoy's bedroom window, before turning and beginning the long walk to an Apparition point.

***

The Ministry was quiet and nearly deserted when Harry got there. His footsteps echoed in the hallway as he made his way down to Auror headquarters and for the first time, it hit Harry that he really shouldn't have left Malfoy alone. This was clearly why Aurors weren't meant to get emotionally involved with their marks – it lead them to make rash decisions that endangered the lives of everybody involved. Harry hurried his pace, thinking if he got to headquarters faster, the less time there would be between his leaving Malfoy unprotected and someone taking his place.

Just as he was rushing through headquarter doors, Harry found himself stopped short by Kingsley, whose large frame and considerable body mass sent Harry bouncing back about a foot.

"Potter!" Kingsley exclaimed, surprise and disdain evident in his voice. "What on earth are you doing here? You're _supposed_ to be guarding Malfoy!"

"I know, sir," Harry began, trying to catch his breath and get the relevant details. "I had an emergency – I phoned Zach, but he hasn't responded -" 

"Damn right he hasn't," Kingsley cut him off, looking warily around the near-deserted office before inclining his head in the direction of his office. "Follow me, Potter."

Once they were in the safety of Kingsley's secluded office and he'd cast a hefty Silencing Charm, Kingsley gave a heavy sigh and leaned on the edge of his desk. "I think Smith is the mole, Harry. He..." he broke off, as if trying figure out how to phrase something. "He killed Goyle, who, as I'm sure you know, was in our protective custody. Smith was in charge of guarding him. I suspected, but I didn't have any _proof_ until today. He's been missing -" Kingsley checked his watch. "- for about an hour." 

"What? No!" Harry exclaimed. "Zach's my partner, I'd know if he were... a killer!" He was flabbergasted. This couldn't be right.

"Would you? You'd be amazed how we make ourselves blind to people's true selves when we're only looking for what we'd like to see."

"But you said you only thought, you don't know -"

"The evidence is fairly damning, Potter."

"Kingsley, I-"

"I don't want to argue this any further. I only told you so you wouldn't go doing anything stupid, like let him know you've left Malfoy alone." Kingsley sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if trying to stifle a headache. "Listen, you go home, have a rest. I'll go look after Malfoy until we can find a replacement. We'll figure the rest of this out in the morning."

"Are you sure that's wise, sir? Shouldn't we tell someone?" Harry purposely didn't mention that he _had_ let Zach know he'd left Malfoy alone. He hoped he hadn't checked his messages yet.

"And tip off Smith? No, we'll keep this just between you and me for now. Everyone involved is dead. Malfoy's the only target left, so at least we know where he's going next. We'll handle this quietly, internally."

Harry still wasn't sold on this. It didn't make any _sense_. "But why would Zach do this?"

"Maybe he was sick of seeing Death Eaters go free? Or perhaps he resented being the object of Malfoy's seduction? You pick," Kingsley said grimly.

"You _know_ about that?"

"Of course we do. How is no matter." Kingsley answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

Harry worried his lower lip. Was Zach really so homophobic he'd _kill_ Malfoy? He suddenly recalled their overheard conversation. _“I’ll make sure whomever it is that’s so keen to see you dead finds out exactly where you are. And then I’ll watch as they kill you.”_

Shit.

"You should go now," Harry said forcefully, then, at Kingsley's bemused look, added a perfunctory, "Sir." 

"Yes, I think I should." Kingsley nodded. "Go home and get some rest. I'll contact you in the morning. And watch out for Smith. If he shows up...well, you know what to do."

"Yes, sir." Harry nodded grimly.

As Kingsley picked up the aluminium can from his desk and activated his Portkey, Harry realised how suddenly tired he was. He needed to go home, take a shower and then sleep, for as long as his body would let him. Maybe when he woke up, this would all be over. 

***

The water was hot, nearly scalding, but Harry savoured the feel of it, soaking into his skin, burning his nerve endings until all feeling dulled and he only felt pressure. Much as he would have liked to stay under the spray forever, he knew he had only twenty minutes from the boiler, so at the fifteen minute mark, he reluctantly pushed down the handle and stepped from the steamy sanctuary. The chill from his unheated apartment hit his skin and he hissed, grabbing for a towel and wrapping around him hastily. Gooseflesh crept up his arms and across his shoulders and then he heard it: someone was pounding at his front door.

On alert, Harry grabbed the discarded wand he'd left on his bed, hooked the towel securely around his waist, and sprinted to the door. A quick scan told him the figure outside the door was a familiar, someone who had been here before, and a subsequent magical signature test told him what he feared. It was Zacharias. 

Harry awkwardly manoeuvred the door open with his left hand, keeping his wand held firmly in his right – his dominant wand hand – so when the door swung open, he had it trained straight at Zacharias' heart, Stunning Spell ready on his lips.

He found another wand, aimed just as steadfastly at his own heart. The only thing that stopped him Stunning Zacharias was the look on his face. He was terrified.

"Zach, I think you know I'm going to have to take you in," Harry said through gritted teeth.

Zach assessed him, flicking his eyes momentarily down at Harry's wand, then further down to the towel slung round his hips, then back up. His wand hand wavered, but only slightly.

"Harry you have to listen to me - "

"No, Zach, I don't. How _could_ you? We were _partners_!"

"We still are, Harry! You have to listen to me, hear me out. It's not what you think!"

"What? You just _accidentally_ killed all those people? You didn't push Malfoy at me, so we'd fuck and I'd leave? You _knew_ that would happen, didn't you? What? Is he dead?" Harry tried not to let his voice crack at the emotional onslaught the thought brought on. "Kingsley, too? Here to finish me off?" He swallowed hard and gripped his wand so tight he thought he felt the wood crack.

"No! Harry, it's not me! It's _Kingsley_ , don't you get it? This was all a set-up!"

"You're lying. Kingsley said-"

"Said what? What did he say?" Zach challenged, jabbing his wand forward for emphasis. "He said a lot of things to me, too, before sending me up to Birmingham where I found Marcus Flint _dead_. Kingsley was the only one who knew where he was Harry, the only one with the access to his files. Don't you get it? It's _him_! The last person to see Goyle alive, the one who put two people in charge of guarding Malfoy who either had personal histories with him or... other inclinations. And look what he got! The perfect fall-guy and one guilty Harry Potter, ready to vouch for any version of events he might spin. Harry you have to-"

He cut off suddenly, choking on the words and grabbing his throat with his hands. His formerly rigid posture disappeared, his wand clattering to the floor, and his face went red. He hacked and wheezed, hands alternately at his throat or grasping desperately for Harry, as he moaned.

"Poi... poi..." he managed feebly before collapsing in a heap on Harry's doorstep.

"Zach!" Harry cried, torn between checking him to be sure this wasn't some sort of act to get past his defenses, and running to the kitchen for a Bezoar. The second instinct won out, and he was in the kitchen and back in thirty seconds, Bezoar clutched tightly in his hands. He pried Zach's mouth open and unceremoniously shoved the fuzzy little stone past his lips and down his throat as far as he could manage. He waited with baited breath until, a moment later, Zach started hacking again. He sat up, visibly trying to work the Bezoar down his oesophagus, but after a moment he stopped, and the colour returned to his face. He turned to Harry, crouched beside him, and threw his arms around him, effectively tackling him to the floor in his fervour.

"Oh thank God, Harry," he mumbled against Harry's shoulder as they lay on the floor of Harry's entrance hall. "He must have booby-trapped the body with an airborne poison agent. Thank you, thank you, thank you." He burrowed further into the warmth of Harry's body, holding him with all his might. Realising the impropriety of being sprawled naked on the floor with his partner clinging to him for dear life, Harry interrupted his continuous chant of thank yous.

"Um, Zach, I'm kind of naked... you should, um, get off."

Zach lifted his head and looked down at the two of them, noting the growing hard-on Harry was sporting.

"Oh. Um, yes. Awkward." 

He rolled off Harry, giving him room to stand then offered up his hand. "Help me get up?"

Harry obliged him, pulling Zach to his feet and supporting him as they moved into the living room, before depositing him on the couch. Once he'd gone back to the foyer, retrieved Zach's wand and shut the door, Harry returned to the living room to get some more answers. He made sure to re-secure his towel before sitting down beside him.

"Zach, what happened?"

Zach took a heavy swallow, laying a hand over his stomach as it growled audibly. "I started to suspect something was off when we had Goyle in custody. He seemed... afraid of Kingsley. I mean, at first I assumed it was because, you know, former Death Eater, but then when he turned up dead..." Zach trailed off, worrying his lip, thinking over the events of the past few days. "He wasn't suicidal, no matter what Kingsley said. I wasn't sure, of course, but I started looking into Nott's records, who was his contact at the Ministry. And, of course: it was Kingsley. I still wasn't completely sure, but I must have given _something_ away because then this afternoon, Kingsley sent me up to Birmingham and I found Flint dead... Kingsley was the only one with the details on the Witness Relocation Programme. And clearly the fact that I just nearly died is a bit of a giveaway."

"He tried to convince me it was you, that you did it because Malfoy, you know..." 

Zach blushed and looked down at his hands. Harry jumped up, as if struck by lightening. 

"Fuck, Malfoy! We have to go _now_ , Zach! He's alone with him. Jesus bloody buggering Christ!"

Harry went into a panic, grabbing his wand off the coffee table and looking around frantically for something he could charm into a Portkey.

"Harry! Calm down!" Zach tried to reason with him. "This is Kingsley we're talking about, we can't just run in there! We have to go prepared. First of all, you need to put some clothes on. And I'm not fully recovered..."

"I have Pepper Up Potion. In the kitchen," Harry informed him, already half way to the bedroom. "You're free to go help yourself, just... I can't do this alone, Zach.” Harry was embarrassed to find his voice crack. He tried not to think about how badly he’d fucked this all up. “You know I'm too emotionally invested. Kingsley will use that. I need my partner on this."

After contemplating a minute, brow furrowed and teeth worrying his lower lip, Zach gave a short nod and heaved himself off the couch.

"Go get dressed. Where's the potion?"

"Cupboard in the corner – I left it open when I got the Bezoar. And thanks, Zach."

"You know it's not a problem, Harry." Zach gave him a small smile and hobbled off towards the kitchen.

***

By the time they arrived at the cottage, Harry calculated he'd left Draco alone for between an hour and an hour and a half. Kingsley would have been with him at least a half hour. He didn't want to think about what Kingsley could have done to him in that time. The house was dark but for a low light in the living room, which shone dimly through the closed curtains.

"You go round the back. I'll take the front," Harry whispered to Zach, who nodded his agreement.

"He thinks I'm dead – we should use that to our advantage," Zach said, starring grimly at the house. "Harry..." he started slowly, clearly trying to the find the most sensitive way to say something. "You do realise we may be too late? I know it's not easy to hear, but we have to prepare ourselves for that possibility." He turned, grabbing Harry firmly by the forearms, holding him close and looking him squarely in the eyes. "If that's the case, you can't kill him. We have to bring Kingsley in."

Fighting back the sick that threatened to rise in his throat, Harry gritted his teeth and nodded firmly. "I know."

Zach held his gaze a moment longer, before giving his own nod and sprinting off towards the back of the cottage. Harry slowly approached the front, starting first with the front window – perhaps he could see what was going on. Luckily, he found a small crack where the two curtains met – likely left ajar from when he closed them earlier the morning – God, it seemed like ages ago now. 

Harry shifted, feeling his muscles burn from their earlier sexual activity. His stomach fluttered as he thought of Draco inside him, Draco kissing his shoulder, the two of them lying together afterwards. He had finally found _something_ that made him happy and he'd bloody run away, put everything in jeopardy because of his cowardice. Squinting through the crack in the curtains, he could just make out Draco sitting on the couch, posture tense, arms on his knees and staring at something to his side. Thank God, he was alive! 

Harry moved closer to the glass, trying to make out anything else, when a figure moved in front of his view of Draco – Kingsley. He circled Malfoy, discussing something rather fervently; he was gesticulating wildly, jabbing his wand in Draco's direction every once and a while. Harry saw Draco sneer and say something, then get hit with a rather nasty Stinging Hex. Both Harry and Draco sucked in a pained breath at the same time, and Harry made the decision to go in – if he played dumb, he might be able to take Kingsley by surprise. After all, if Kingsley thought Zach was dead, he'd have no idea that Harry knew he was behind everything. He just had to come up with a feasible excuse for showing up.

Rapping lightly on the door twice before turning the handle and going into the entrance hall, Harry called out, trying his best to sound casual. "Kingsley? Malfoy? Hey, it's Harry – I forgot something."

In the living room he found Kingsley staring at him, clearly surprised, yet trying to show a calm, bemused face. Malfoy had turned round to look and was trying to shoot him pleading looks, without catching Kingsley's attention.

"Hey, sorry, I, um, left my toothbrush," Harry explained, affecting a sheepish grin and purposefully avoiding Malfoy's gaze. He had to put on just the right show for Kingsley.

"I have to say, it is a surprise to see you here, Harry," Kingsley said a little too brightly.

"Yeah, well, I'm an idiot. Got through my shower and everything before I realised I'd left it. I'm always doing silly things like that."

 _Blush, look down at your feet,_ don't _look at Malfoy. Look back up at Kingsley, smile._

"I'll just... run upstairs," he finished, turning to head up the stairs, but Kingsley's voice caught him.

"Harry?"

"Hmmm?" he hummed, trying to sound casual.

"You couldn't simply _buy_ a new toothbrush? Or use a charm?" 

Shit, he had to know. Harry fingered the handle of his wand, stuck in his back jeans pocket. He shrugged, keeping his expression neutral. It was for nothing, however. Kingsley returned to pointing his wand at Draco's heart, and smirked at Harry.

"You make a move, he dies. Expelliarmus!"

Harry's wand left his back pocket and streaked across the room, landing at Kingsley's feet. 

"You were never very good at being subtle, Harry. Brilliant when it comes to action, absolute _bollocks_ at undercover."

"Why'd you let me onto the team, then?"

"You're Harry Potter; do you think I'm an idiot? And you hate Death Eaters as much as I do. Unless you're fucking them, that is." Kingsley sneered in Draco's direction and Harry saw Draco's eyebrows shoot up into his forehead.

"How do you even know?" Harry asked, as much for his benefit as Draco's – he wanted him to know he certainly hadn't told him.

"As if it wasn't completely obvious. You've had a hard on for Mister Malfoy for years – I knew it when I let you into the DET, knew it when I assigned you to this case and knew you'd finally fucked your brains out as soon as you arrived at the Ministry. You're like a puppet, Potter, doing exactly what I want you to do."

"And what was that? Leave Malfoy alone so you could kill him? Why?"

"Because he's a fucking Death Eater!" Kingsley let out with an angry boom. 

"He was acquitted!"

"Yes, because you _vouched_ for him, dick leading the way before your brain," Kingsley now sneered, voice low and dangerous. "If you hadn’t had such a hard on for Mr. Malfoy here, he’d be rotting in jail, or better yet, dead, not enjoying the lush life."

Draco whipped his head from one side to the other, trying to keep up with their conversation as it ping-ponged back and forth. Harry simply stared coldly at Kingsley, who continued his tirade.

"If Scrimgeour had lived, every one of those Death Eater scum would be dead, not enjoying the protection of the government, thanks to that Muggle-loving fool, Arthur. He thinks you’re all redeemable, for some ridiculous reason. Doesn’t like the idea of executions or long term prison sentences."

"You're crazy," said Draco finally, promptly recoiling as Kingsley's eyes flashed and he jabbed his wand at him. 

"No, you are Kingsley," continued Harry. "You want to just shoot them, like dogs? Kill every remaining Death Eater like Goyle, Nott, Flint? Most of them _helped_ us during the war, or after it. Or were coerced into becoming Death Eaters in the first place."

"They're all fucking scum, Harry." Kingsley took a sure step toward him, keeping his wand trained at Draco's chest. "Goyle beat up countless individuals, and buried the bodies Voldemort didn't want found. Nott gave up information on half a dozen of his schoolmates – your peers – before came over to our side. And Flint killed Scrimgeour. Rufus understood. I thought you would – they killed your parents, your friends, _the Minister_."

"All Death Eaters aren't the same – not all of them committed mass murder, and they all got some sort of punishment. Scrimgeour was demanding executions for all of them, if he'd lived-"

"The world would be a better for it," Kingsley cut him off. "And now that his killer is dead, I can move on to the rest of them." He turned his attention to Draco.

"Kingsley, I don't understand," Harry protested, both because he genuinely didn't understand and because he wanted to keep Kingsley's attention away from Draco as long as possible. "Flint didn't kill Scrimgeour, it was Thaddeus Carson; you know that. He was caught at the trial, admitted to the plot and was executed for it!" 

"That's what they wanted us all to think, Harry. Carson was the scapegoat, Nott let slip that much. From there all it took was leaning on Goyle in just the right way and he gave up Flint as the real culprit. He'd Imperiused the boy to do his bidding, _their bidding_." - He jabbed his wand at Draco – "We should have put them all down when we had the chance."

"I won't let you do this," Harry said firmly, wishing Zach would charge in and save them right about now – Kingsley was clearly unhinged. 

"Try and stop me," answered Kingsley with a crooked smile. He flicked his wand at Draco and spoke a firm Crucio.

"Stop it!" cried Harry as Draco began to twitch and moan. Curling into a ball, Draco whimpered as he tried to stave off the pain. 

"What did he ever do?" Harry questioned piteously, looking desperately around for something to use against Kingsley. He tried a wandless Accio, but his wand remained on the floor at Kingsley's feet.

Kingsley ended the curse and looked at Harry, then at Draco, rather peculiarly.

"I wasn't sure if I was going to kill him, at first." He lowered his wand, just a fraction and spoke in a calm, yet glib tone. "His exposés put a lot of Death Eaters away. But then he wrote Rufus' obit." His expression turned stony. "I didn't like it."

Speaking through heavy breaths, Draco looked up from the sofa. "You didn't like the fucking obit? _That's_ why you're trying to kill me?"

Kingsley simply nodded and trained his wand point upon Draco once more. "And it's perfect, too. I kill you, then Harry, and pass it off as a lover's tiff. Potter the unhinged war hero unable to stand being Draco Malfoy's one night stand. It'll be all over the newspapers. I know how much you love a front page story, Malfoy. Too bad you won't live to see it." He opened his mouth, killing curse on his lips. 

"And what about Zacharias, then?" challenged Harry, thinking quickly, trying to stall him. Where the fuck was Zach? "Frame him up for the other deaths, put this one off on me and live happily ever after, wanking over Scrimgeour's grave?"

"Hmmm, yes. Smith was a lucky find. Another short-fused pretty boy with a known history of Death Eater hatred and sexual confusion. The perfect little task force, we three. I had considered luring him _here_ to finish him off, pass it off as a three-way murder-suicide thing, but sending him up north was more economic. He'd already begun to suspect..."

Kingsley's expression shifted from smug triumph to confusion. "Wait. How did you know about Flint, Harry? I didn't mention anything about Flint being dead."

"Because the short-fused pretty boy told him," rang Zacharias's voice from the doorway. Harry whipped around just in time to duck out of the way. "Stupefy!" cried Zach, and Kingsley flew back, smacking hard against the stone fireplace and dropping to the floor. 

"It's about fucking time, Zach!" said Harry picking up his wand from the floor and casting a quick binding spell on Kingsley's unconscious form, and then an extra Stupefy for good measure.

" Sorry I took so long," said Zach, coming in from the hall and surveying their fallen leader. He shook his head with disdain and then looked back up at Harry. “I was waiting for him to let his guard down.”

"You couldn't have done that when he was ranting about poorly written obits?"

"Hey!" came Draco's offended voice as he got up from the couch. "It was _not_ poorly written. My obits are fucking amazing."

Harry and Zach shared an eyeroll. "I think the fact that someone just tried to kill you is slightly more important than whether or not you're a good writer," chided Harry.

"Well, in all fairness," chimed in Zach, "he did want to kill him _because_ of his writing."

"And yet there are so many good reasons to want to kill him," Harry couldn’t help adding. He cast a downward glance at their unconscious supervisor while Draco scowled at him for his comment. He looked rather harmless collapsed in a heap upon the floor. To think he'd killed at least three people in the last week, if not more. And all to avenge Scrimgeour? "We've really been working for a nutter, haven't we, Zach?" 

"Hmmm, yes," Zach said, trying to suppress his laughter. "We really shouldn't cracking jokes about it just yet."

"No," said Harry, collecting himself, and resisting the urge to make anymore off-colour remarks. “But it will be pretty funny in a few months time.”

Draco looked between them, getting up off the couch and finally marching up to Harry and smacking him on the shoulder. "Why the fuck did you leave, you prat? I almost _died_. I couldn't have been that bad in bed."

Harry saw Zach flush, and felt a bit of heat on his own cheeks.

"I, um, err," struggled Harry. 

"I'll just, um, send out a Patronus, get some backup," offered Zach, moving as quickly as he could toward the door. 

"Well?" Draco quirked an expectant eyebrow.

"I panicked!"

"Brave Gryffindor my arse," Draco scoffed.

"Can you blame me? I've never done any of this before and I realised I was no longer objective... I panicked and left."

"And it almost got me killed! And what's wrong with caring about the people you're guarding? Shouldn't you _want_ to keep them alive?"

Harry looked at Draco, really looked at him, for the first time since he'd arrived. Even with everything technically over, Draco still looked terrified, despite his banter with Harry. If Harry had been just a bit later, Draco would be dead. Fighting the sudden wave of nausea that rose up from his stomach at the thought, Harry surged forward, wrapping Draco in a tight hug.

"I'm sorry, Draco. I was scared," Harry said quietly, closing his eyes and breathing in the heady scent of sweat on Draco's neck. God, he still smelled like sex.

"'s okay," Draco mumbled into Harry's shoulder as he relaxed, slowly, into the embrace. "I'm glad you came back. I thought I was going to die."

"I promised I wouldn't let anything happen to you." 

Draco pulled back, locking eyes with Harry, some serious thought or perhaps a thank you glinting in the grey, and then he craned his head until their lips touched, just so. The click of the front door opening pulled them out of the moment and they separated before Zach could lumber back into the living room.

"They're on their way. I didn't give details, but I told them we'd need memory specialists and Veritaserum – we'll need records from all three of us to counteract anything Kingsley might have set in motion to frame us." Harry nodded his assent and Zach flushed again as he looked Harry and Draco up and down – Harry looked down himself and saw he and Draco both had erections.

"I'll, um, wait for them outside. I have to remove the anti-Apparition wards anyway. Um, yeah." Zach spun on his heel and went back outside.

"Ugh, how embarrassing!" Harry flushed.

"I think it's funny." Draco smiled. "Smith's so far into the closet, it's great seeing him squirm."

"He's straight, Draco."

"Says 'Harry 'no, really, I like girls!' Potter.' You have such bad gaydar, you couldn't even diagnose yourself." Draco smirked. "I can't wait to put this in the Prophet." 

"No fucking way are you putting this in the paper."

"Oh, come on! This is fucking _brilliant_. 'Boy Hero Harry Potter Gay and Shagging Prophet's Star Reporter!' And you owe me a headline."

"What? 'Auror Division Head Kingsley Shacklebolt Off His Head' not good enough?"

"Oh, I want _both_. We'll sell a million copies! _The Warlock Telegraph_ can kiss my bloody arse." He broke out into a naughty grin. "Or, you know, _you_ could kiss my arse. And my cock. And my balls. And-"

Harry cut him off by pressing their lips firmly together. 

"You quit that," he scolded. "No dirty talk until I've got you back at mine, naked in my bed."

Draco quirked an eyebrow. "Do you want me to smack your arse and say 'oh, yes, baby baby?', too?"

"I can still hear you!" came Zach's voice from outside. He sounded like he was about to cry.

Harry and Draco broke into a fit of giggles, bracing against each other for support. Kingsley groaned in the corner, and Harry cast another Stupefy before pulling Draco to him and getting back to their kiss.

***

Harry groaned as he unfolded _The Daily Prophet_ and read the main headline.

> _Zacharias Smith promoted to head of the Death Eater Taskforce. Kingsley Shacklebolt still being questioned over informant deaths._

Zach was his _boss_ now. He only just resisted the urge to bang his head on the table.

"Don't be so dramatic," came a smug voice from behind him. A pristinely manicured hand set down a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. "You don't even _like_ your job, remember?"

Harry craned his neck around to look at his smirking companion. "Shuddup. He's absolutely vile as a boss. Keeps snarking about my boyfriend and sending memos signed 'to The Boy Who Lived for Death Eater Cock'."

Draco snorted and laid a quick, wet kiss on Harry's forehead.

"He's just jealous. We should really have him over for a threesome."

"Zacharias is-"

"Straight, I know," intejected Draco. "I still think it's absolute bollocks, but if it makes you feel better..."

"It does. I do not need to think about my erstwhile partner and now boss with a cock up his arse."

"Then I won't tell you how he moaned when I penetrated his tight, hot-"

"Draco!"

Draco flopped down into the chair next to him and swiped playfully at his fringe. "Prude."

"Slut."

"Wanker."

"Um,...Rim-job giver," finished Harry awkwardly to an exaggerated eyeroll from Draco.

"Oh, Harry, that was _lame_."

"You know I'm not good with words."

"Yes, that's why I'm the writer in this relationship." He smiled slyly, grabbing a piece of toast off Harry's plate and gnawing on the corner. "The writer who still wants to write your coming out story..."

"No," answered Harry firmly.

"But the _Telegraph_ has been all over it, and it's _killing me_!"

"You'd have to out yourself, as well."

"Who cares! I bagged Harry Fucking Potter, I'll be heralded as a sex god!" Draco simpered at Harry. "I _am_ a sex god, hmmm?" Harry felt a socked foot creep up his leg under the table.

"Not again, Draco. We broke the table last time."

"We repaired it again, after."

"Yes, but-"

"Fine, fine. Bedroom? We still haven't tried me bottoming from the top."

Harry frowned, playing with some bits of toast. "I wanted to try it in the shower..."

"We can do both, you know."

"No time – I have to go to work. Zacharias will have my balls if I'm late again."

"Oh, pfft. We'll take pictures, you can bring them in and show why you were late. He'll love it."

" _Draco_."

"Fine." Draco rose from his seat, moving towards the back of the flat.

"Where are you going?" called Harry in a bit of panic.

"Bathroom. We only have time for one sexual position, so shower sex it is..."

Harry grinned and abandoned his breakfast and morning paper. He was already hard, tip of his cock poking out from his dressing gown. All it took was the suggestion of sex with Draco and his prick stood to attention, keening for a tight arse, wet mouth or his own hand as Draco took him from behind. Harry pulled the bottle of lube he kept on him at all times out of his dressing gown pocket and squeezed several drops into his palm. Divesting himself of the cover, he pumped a hand over his cock and followed Draco back into the bathroom. 

So many sexual positions to learn, so little time...

***

_Meanwhile, at Hogwarts..._

Severus took a sip of his tea and eyed his companion. 

“Are you pleased that it’s over?”

“I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

"It’ll never truly be over, Severus. In a few years time, someone else will uncover something else and then I’ll have to concoct another story. This time it was Nott spilling the beans that Carson didn't kill Scrimgeour. What'll it be next time? Someone's bound to figure out it wasn't Marcus Flint, either. It’s exhausting."

“We all do things we don’t want to do for the greater good, Mr. Weasley.”

Percy looked up from his cup, which had grown cold in his hands. “Yes, I suppose. I didn’t know I’d be signing up for murder when I agreed to help Dumbledore.”

“But you’re so _good_ at it," Snape simpered. "Why did you choose Flint anyway?”

“He called me a ponce when we were at school together.”

“Fair enough,” Severus responded with a small smile.

Percy tapped his foot compulsively against the carpet. The middle Weasley had never been quite cut out for the war, but he'd done well enough. Severus observed him staring worriedly into the fire, then settled into his own thoughts.

It really was a pity that no one besides Percy would ever know about the complex poison he’d brewed to kill off the former Minister of Magic. It was equally unfortunate that no one, including Dumbledore, who had ordered Severus take action against Scrimgeour should he get out of hand, would ever know of the brilliance of the plan Severus had concocted. Percy, ideal in his placement within the Minister’s office and as one of Dumbledore’s lesser known spies, simply carried it out, slipping the slow-acting poison into the Minister’s tea the morning of the Lestrange trial. And then there was the stupid kid Severus had Imperiused to attack Scrimgeour at the trial – Thaddeus Carson, some hapless Slytherin. Severus sighed – pity it had to be one of his own house, but in the wake of the war, no one would question a murderous Slytherin. Had me made it a Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, it would have been far sooner that someone would have asked questions.

Poor, stupid, over-zealous Rufus Scrimgeour, who had died for Albus Dumbledore’s desire to keep control over the wizarding world, even in death. And Severus’s poison was, of course, completely untraceable. No one would ever know what happened. But, then again, some of the greatest actions in history were meant to be forgotten.

He took a slow drag from his tea and looked into the dying embers of the fire.  
 _Finis_


End file.
